Growing Pains Bundle 1

Chapter One

Alex Johnson, here. I’m glad you’re reading this, because there was a time when I never thought I’d ever have the ability to sit still long enough write down a phone number. I’ve been asked a lot how I ended up like this. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t want to be anyone else, and I wouldn’t trade the experience of how I got to where I am today for anything. But it hasn’t been easy.

Up until my junior year in high school, I guess I was fairly normal, at least by comparison to now. I had some problems that are not too unusual. I had mild autism—Asperger’s Syndrome, it’s called. It’s fairly moderate compared to a lot of other kids on what’s called the Autism Spectrum. Some scientists think it isn’t even a form of autism at all.

Being an Aspie isn’t easy, and this made me socially isolated, even though I went to public school and regular classes. My mom thought it was important that I not be coddled and learn to cope with everyday problems. Mainstreamed, they call it. The schoolwork wasn’t the problem—I was plenty smart and got good grades, but I didn’t relate well with anyone but a handful of people. The most common way I hear Aspies describe it is they feel like they’re on the wrong planet. We just don’t understand the social cues and emotions that everybody else takes for granted.

We also tend to be obsessive about weird things and go on and on about them. I could tell you all about the number of freight trains that rumble through Antioch every day, and even rattle off the numbers of the freight cars, but ask me to guess someone’s emotion by looking at their face, and it would be just that—a guess. When I was younger I used to carry a crib sheet of faces with different expressions and the emotions that went with them printed underneath. Eventually I got passable at faking it without the card.

English, geography, math—those are easy. They’re just lists or facts and figures. Math is especially easy because the rules never change. Once you know the rules, you can do any math problem. History and literature, now those are tough. There are no rules.

You’d think Gym Class would be easy for me, wouldn’t you? After all, it’s just playing sports, and all sports have rules. That’s true, if you’re talking about the official rules. The problem is, there’s tons more unwritten rules. Who you pick for teams. Who you talk to. What you do. It’s all bathed in testosterone wrapped in heavy-duty teenage angst. It’s that whole locker room thing. Because I couldn’t look people in the eye, they thought I was looking somewhere else. I learned fast to just to look at the floor.

On top of all that, I was conflicted about my sexuality. For a long time, I told myself that I was just shy around girls, and sooner or later I’d grow out of it. Being gay in a town like Antioch, Nebraska was pretty much an open invitation to have the shit beat out of you on a regular basis. This town is all pickup trucks, prayer meetings, cowboys and high school football, and if you don’t fit into that mold, life can be hard.

When I got old enough to have real privacy, I discovered internet porn. Naked women elicited curiosity, but men got my attention. Big men. Muscular men. Bodybuilders. I discovered sites where men were PhotoShopped to impossible proportions and bulletin boards where the muscle-obsessed posted pictures and stories. Little did I know...

I guess the defining moment between my old life and what I am today came about a month before the end of my junior year. The cast of characters included my two best friends, Frank and Patty. My only friends, really. They were the only ones I could relate to in anything like a normal manner. Others were just vague human-like shapes I passed every day in the halls. Just obstacles to swim past in the Sea of Life. Other characters included Jason, the school bully, who naturally happened to be the school football star. Why do things work out that way? Another in our cast was Sammy, my school’s only openly gay student. Looking back, I have to admit that Sammy is a pretty courageous person, insisting on being himself despite all the problems it caused. Girls, of course, didn’t have any problem hanging out with him, and he and they very much enjoyed each other’s company. Guys, on the other hand, treated him like he was radioactive. All of which is how Frank and I came to wind up enmeshed in the original incident.

It was early May and Frank and I had to stay a while after school to do some studying in the library. We were headed across the school grounds on our way home when we came around the corner of one of the classroom buildings.

How’s the driving lessons going? Frank asked.

Gram’s been taking me out. Her car is easy to drive.

And?

I still get really nervous. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.

But you’re almost eighteen. Everybody’s got their license.

You don’t.

Dude! We’ve been over this before. My old man says I have to pay for the insurance.

The DQ is hiring.

We’d had this conversation a hundred times. Frank didn’t really want to get a job, but his dad was standing his ground.

I have too many extracurricular activities—chess club, band—important stuff. It’s gotta look good on those college apps.

We both knew that this was BS. Frank just didn’t like the idea of working. Like he’d ever go anywhere but night school at the community college. As for me, I was counting it an accomplishment just to finish high school.

I don’t know where I’d be without Frank. We’d met on the playground in kindergarten. I wasn’t very pleasant to be around in those days. It was before Mom had married Phil, and I wasn’t getting much in the way of treatment. Even though I was supposed to be attending public school, back then I was such a handful that I was put in a special class with other special needs kids. If I related at all with other kids, it was usually a tantrum over toys or personal space or god knows what. I was labeled aggressive because I would fly into a rage when other kids would try to get their toys back. I’d see another kid in the sand with a toy dump truck or whatnot, and it was instantly clear to my Aspie mind that they were playing with it all wrong. Of course, I’d take the toy away to show the right way to do it, and that would lead to screams and shoves and general unpleasantness. I started school late—that’s why I’d be eighteen before I even started my senior year.

For some reason, I just clicked with Frank. Instead of the usual fracas, Frank would instead ask why I did that and then seemed content to play on my terms. Later, when I started getting treatment, a slow process of role reversal began where I started relying on Frank for cues to deal with the outside world, and he came to feel like my protector.

These days, we’d settled into a more equal relationship, where we each found companionship in each other, even if no one else did. I’ll have to admit, though, it was touch-and-go while Frank went through his goth period a couple of years ago. Now we’re almost like brothers. We even look kind of alike. Both skinny, although Frank was even skinnier than me at about one-twenty-five. We were both about five-nine, and I weighed about one-thirty. Same unruly hair, but mine is an unexceptional brown, while Frank’s is almost black. I remember it was lighter before he dyed it for the emo look, and somehow, it just stayed darker.

When we rounded the corner, I froze in my tracks. Across the quad, Jason was wearing an evil grin while the other hyenas laughed. He’d just tripped Sammy for no good reason other than his own entertainment, and Sammy had done a face plant on the hard, rough asphalt. Frank grabbed my arm and pulled me back.

Have a nice day, faggot, we heard Jason say as he gave Sammy a swift kick to the ribcage for good measure and then turned and strutted off among the guffaws of his Neanderthal sycophants. Frank held on to my arm until he was satisfied they were gone and then we hurried over.

Sammy was balled up on the ground, chin and cheek scraped and bleeding, his face contorted in a mixture of pain and rage.

This kind of scene played out way too often at my high school. Jason might be cruel, but he wasn’t stupid. He was very good at pulling these things off and getting away with them. After all, he had his band of thugs to cover for him. Like anyone would believe them. But that wasn’t his ace-in-the-hole. That little plum was the fact the town had a chance of going to the playoffs next year, and naturally, Jason was the star of the football team. He was the Wild Child that everyone was afraid to discipline. He covered his tracks just enough that it was easy for people to look the other way.

In this case, the quad was deserted. When Frank and I came around the corner of the cafeteria, we just caught the tail end of Jason’s performance. Frank stopped because he’s afraid of Jason, like any sensible person. I stopped because that’s just what I do. As I said, I’m an Aspie. While it’s on the autism spectrum, it’s what the school therapist calls high functioning. That means I can carry on a conversation. Sort of.

Because of my inability to pick up on the everyday social cues that everybody else takes for granted, it makes interaction with other people really hard, so I just don’t. Well, not if I don’t have to. I walk around all day avoiding eye contact with people. That’s why when I saw what was happening to Sammy, I did my usual deer-in-the-headlights thing.

As soon as Jason’s crew was out of earshot, we hurried over to Sammy. He’d sat up, but his face was a bloody mess, and he was holding his side where he’d been kicked.

Those motherfuckers! he spat under his breath. He had scrapes on his chin and his right cheek where he’d hit the pavement.

As I said, Sammy is openly gay, which is not always the most positive situation in small-town Nebraska, this being just the most recent example. There were rumors he had a boyfriend, but that he was afraid to come out. Sammy was actually popular in some circles, such as the drama geeks, where it’s generally a plus to be flamboyant.

We’d better take him to the nurse, Frank said, prodding me to take Sammy’s other arm. I hope she doesn’t ask too many questions.

Like I said, Frank is my best friend. Well, my only friend. He’s one of the gamer nerds that hang out in the library. Believe it or not, I’m even too remote for them. Except for Frank. For some reason, I’ve always felt I could talk to him. When it comes to keeping me from screwing up, he can be a lifesaver. I’ve never actually been the target of Jason’s cruelty, but that’s only because Frank has been there to keep me from blithely walking into danger. In truth, just about anyone who is not one of Jason’s troglodyte jock buddies could wind up on the receiving end. At the moment, however, he just wasn’t really aware that I existed.

We got Sammy on his feet. He was having a hard time straightening up from where he’d been kicked, but we managed to walk him over to the nurse’s office.

Nurse Norma was at her desk and as soon she saw Sammy she stood up and said, Oh, Sammy, what now? This was not the first time he’d been brought in for a stitch or two. Put him in that chair, she said.

Alright, what happened? looking more at the two of us rather than Sammy.

He fell down, Frank said with a little more certainty than I was expecting. Sammy looked up like he was going to say something, but Frank turned and looked him in the eyes and Sammy didn’t speak.

Nurse Norma was dabbing Sammy’s face with gauze. I’m going to take you to the ER. You might need an x-ray, she said to him. Then she turned to us.

I want you boys to come, too. Mr. or Mrs. Cook might want to talk to you. She turned away to use the phone.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Frank turned to me.

Alex, we have to get our stories straight, he said under his breath.

What stories? I said, thickly.

If we say that Jason did this, we’re dead meat. I don’t want to be eating through a straw.

But won’t they do something to Jason? Arrest him or something?

C’mon, Alex, has that ever happened the other times?

Well, no...

That’s right. Coach Decker won’t let anybody lay a finger on his star quarterback. Not while it’s looking like we might actually have a decent season. Besides, all of Jason’s toadies would just say he was with them, and nothing happened.

We rode with Nurse Norma to the Emergency Room. When we got there they started to take Sammy back to one of the examination rooms. She turned to us and said, You two wait out here for Mr. and Mrs. Cook. They said they were on the way. She turned and walked away.

We sat silently in the waiting room for a few minutes.

I think we should say something, Frank, I said quietly. Frank’s head snapped in my direction.

"Are you nuts? Don’t you remember what happened to Ernie Tran? He was on crutches for three weeks!"

Just then, Mr. and Mrs. Cook walked up to us, their faces filled with concern.

Sammy fell down, Frank volunteered, before either of them could speak. Mr. Cook looked at him with a suspicious eye. Sammy had been out for some time now, and they knew full well that no amount of loving and acceptance on their part could completely overcome the bigotry and homophobia Sammy experienced in a small conservative town like Antioch. Sometimes I wondered why they just didn’t move.

Are you sure? Mr. Cook said carefully. Frank avoided eye contact.

Yes, he finally replied.

Norma came out from the examination area.

Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Cook. Sammy will be fine. Just a few scrapes, but they want to take an x-ray to be on the safe side. You need to sign the authorization. They started to turn to go.

Then I did something that I knew with complete, absolute one-hundred-percent certainty I’d regret.

Jason tripped him, I said quietly.

Frank’s eyes got big, and he quickly developed an expression of panic. Mr. Cook spoke slowly and deliberately.

Excuse me son, what did you say?

Whenever I’m under a lot of stress, and boy, did this qualify, I have a hard time controlling what I say or do. It’s like I have to do something to vent the pressure in my head, or it’ll explode. Frank was starting to make little twitching movements with his face and backing away like I had the plague.

Jason tripped him, I repeated, despite the fact that my brain was screaming at me to shut up. My mouth had gone over to the other side.

He was showing off for his friends. He laughed and called Sammy a fag. I’m not sure if it was possible to do any more to shorten my life expectancy. Frank looked like he was going to faint.

Mr. and Mrs. Cook? Can you come this way? the ER nurse said. Before they turned to go, Mr. Cook looked at us and put one hand on each of our shoulders.

Alex, Frank, I need both you boys to stay right here until we come back. Understand?

Yes, sir, I said.

The instant they were both out of sight, Frank grabbed me by the arm and dragged me across the waiting room and out the door. Outside, we broke into a dead run. After a few blocks, we stopped to catch our breath. We were both gulping air like the catch of the day.

That— gasp—was close, Frank said.

Why— pant—did we— wheeze—run away? Mr. Cook told us to stay.

Trust me, Frank said, finally catching his breath, we don’t want to have anything to do with this.

But...

Alex! Listen to me! All of Jason’s cronies will swear on a stack of bibles that he was with them and didn’t do it. Even if the principal doesn’t believe him, this town is so addled by the fact that we might actually go to the playoffs that Coach Decker will lean on him to let Jason off.

"But I...

No! No more talking!

It was too late to go back to school, so we both headed home. I did as Frank said and didn’t say anymore. We parted at the corner and I walked the rest of the way to my house alone.

When I got home, the house was empty. Both my Mom and my stepdad Phil work. My grandmother—Gram, I call her—lives in the granny flat out back. She’s my dad’s mother, and I’ve never really figured out why she lives with us, instead of one of my dad’s brothers or sisters. She’s only in her sixties and pretty independent, so she could even live on her own, if she wanted.

I don’t remember my dad too much. He died when I was about three. My mother married Phil when I was seven, and in recent years he has made it clear that I’m a big inconvenience. He’s always muttering that I don’t earn my keep, whatever that means. I’m always doing chores like housework or yard work. I find repetitive activities very calming. I vacuum and I sweep and I rake and I mow, and during those times my mind can focus on just that one thing. For a moment, I’m at peace.

The thing about autism is that I can’t handle the amount of sensory input that regular people do. Everything starts to get all jumbled and I get confused. Because of this, a lot of people will think I’m stupid, when I’m not, really. I just have a hard time organizing my thoughts while I try to sort through all the strands of information bombarding my senses. I’m great with facts and figures, once I commit them to memory. Putting concepts together in new ways on my own? Not so much. That’s why despite the fact that I can recite the periodic table or all the vice presidents of the United States, I still struggle with science and history.

I went upstairs to my bedroom, threw off my backpack and shut the door. Ah, sanctuary. A place for everything and everything in its place. I turned on my computer, checked my mail and settled in for some game time. Another chance to calm my turbid mind.

Only this time, it wasn’t working. I kept thinking about Sammy and the emergency room. I did the right thing, didn’t I? In fact, I couldn’t help it. I knew that if I didn’t speak up, I’d be lost in a fog of uncertainty until I cracked and told someone. This is why no one ever tells me secrets. It’s like someone opens a valve and the pressure starts building up inside of me. Sooner or later I just have to relieve the pressure.

Before I knew it, Mom was home from work. That meant Phil wasn’t far behind. Mom’s a beauty operator and she rents a chair from Sheila down at the salon. She’s talked about starting her own place, but Phil always manages to throw cold water on that by complaining about the cost. Meanwhile he’s the one that has the new car every three or four years or the new golf clubs or big-screen TV. He’s not a bad guy, but I really don’t like him.

My phone rang. It was Frank.

Alex! Dude! We have to get our stories straight.

What stories? I asked, once more.

What do you mean, what stories? Come back down to earth, dude! Where have you been the last three hours? Frank’s voice sounded about a half an octave higher than normal. "If Jason thinks you fingered him as the one that hurt Sammy, you’re dead meat! We’re dead meat!"

But won’t Sammy just tell them what happened? I replied.

I don’t think so, dude. He’d just risk another beating. Frank always called people dude when he got excited. Even if he said something, Jason’s got his cave men to cover for him, not to mention Coach Decker. C’mon, nobody saw us until we went to help Sammy.

But wouldn’t that be lying?

Frank’s voice jumped up another half-octave and he starting speaking slowly, like he was talking to an idiot. All you have to do is tell them that Sammy fell down. Period. That is what happened, so it wouldn’t be lying.

But that’s not what happened. There was a long pause on the other end and I was just about to ask Frank if he was still there.

"You’re not listening! You’d be telling the important part. The other stuff doesn’t matter."

Well I...

Alex, trust me. If you want to see your next birthday, you’ve got to do it this way. Okay?

Okay. The line went dead.

I went back to surfing the internet. A voice called from downstairs.

Alex! Tell your Gram that dinner’s ready! It was Mom.

Okay! I called back. I went downstairs and out the back door to call Gram. I gave a quick knock and went in.

Gram was sitting in her usual easy chair, but in the chair opposite was a man I didn’t know. He looked to be in his middle forties, short brown hair and one of those goatees that everyone seems to have now. When he stood up, I saw that he was about my height, five-nine, and pretty average build for a man his age. He was wearing blue jeans and one of those jackets with the patches on the elbows.

Alex, this is Bob Leonard. He was a friend of your father.

The man extended his hand and when I took it he reached with his other hand and started pumping it vigorously.

I’m so glad to finally meet you. Your grandmother has been telling me all about you.

I... uh...

Oh I should have warned you, Bob. Alex has a hard time being touched. Especially new people. It’s nothing personal, just the way he is.

Mr. Leonard let go and took a step back like he’d just had an electric shock.

Oh, I didn’t mean...

That’s okay, Mr. Leonard. I’m pleased to meet you, I managed to say, quietly. I turned to Gram. Mom said to tell you that dinner is ready.

Won’t you stay? Gram said to Mr. Leonard with a smile. I’m sure Carol won’t mind.

That’s very nice of you to ask, Mr. Leonard said, having regained his composure, but no, I need to be on my way.

Well, if you’re sure.

Mr. Leonard turned to me. It was a pleasure meeting you, Alex. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again. He seemed to be uncertain whether to offer his hand again. He didn’t.

Oh, uh, right.

Mr. Leonard moved to the door. Alex, I’d love to get together with you some time and share some stories about your father. Goodbye, Anne.

Before I could say anything else, he was headed down the alley toward the street.

C’mon Alex, I’m hungry, Gram said as she started out the door to the front house.

By the time I sat down, Phil had come home.

Jesus Christ, what a day! he said as he plopped into his chair. He said this every night when he got home.

Gram followed Mom into the kitchen. Phil and I ignored each other, as usual.

Phil works as the service manager at the Sears Auto Center. He’s always complaining about how the customers expect the world and all his employees are lazy bums. Gram says he has a Napoleon Complex. I looked that up, and it means he doesn’t like being short and I guess it doesn’t help that I’m about three inches taller than him. He’s known Mom almost as long as my Dad did, since high school. I think Mom finally married him because she just became overwhelmed with the job of raising a developmentally disabled child. If you think I live in my own world at seventeen, you should have seen me at seven.

Even with the progress I made once I started getting regular therapy and proper medication, I think Phil still views me as an annoyance taking up way too much of Mom’s time. I don’t think he’s ever gotten past the notion that he was second choice, either. As you can imagine, we’re not what you’d call close. His latest gripe is about the fact that I’m eating more and have gone up two shoe sizes in six months.

Mom and Gram came out of the kitchen with the meatloaf and the vegetables. Mom’s always insisted that we eat dinner as a family. She thinks it helps with my social skills. Maybe it does, I guess. After we were seated, Mom made her perennial conversation starter.

Alex, how was your day?

I’d learned a long time ago that I couldn’t get away with just saying fine like any normal kid.

Fine.

I can hope, can’t I?

Tell us what you did today.

Nothing special. Class. Lunch. Stuff.

Usually I had something ready because I knew what was coming, but after all that happened and with my best friend swearing me to secrecy, I’d been a little preoccupied. I could feel that pressure starting again. It was looking grim. Fortunately, I could rely on Phil, right on cue.

"For Chrissakes Alex, pull your head out for once. Tell your mother what you did today.

Well, um, we had cherry Jell-O in the cafeteria.

Oh for...

Phil, leave him alone, Gram said.

Who’s Bob Leonard? I blurted out.

Mom dropped her fork on her plate with a clatter. Phil’s fork stopped in mid-air while his mouth hung open like a codfish.

How do you know that name? Mom said slowly.

He was with Gram when I went out to call her for dinner. I shook his hand.

Phil leaned back in his chair and rolled his eyes. Now I’ve heard everything, he said. Anne, just what are you up to?

Why, nothing. He just stopped by for a little chat, she said. She looked down at her plate oddly while she twiddled her fork.

Chat about what? Mom snapped.

Old times. He was especially pleased to see what a fine young man Alex has become.

I’ll bet, Phil snorted.

Don’t ask him around again, Mom said with a mixture of anger and concern.

I didn’t ask him. He knocked on my door, Gram said airily.

"Well, this is my house, and I don’t want him around, Phil snapped back. Gram just shrugged her shoulders and dinner was finished in silence.

I went upstairs to do my homework with the strange exchange at the dinner table having all but pushed the rest of the day’s events out of my mind.

At school the next morning, Frank was nowhere to be seen. We usually saw each other before first period but he didn’t seem to be around.

I spotted Patty in the crowd and decided to ask her if she knew why I hadn’t seen Frank. Patty is about the only girl I ever talk to, mainly because she’s the only one who’s taken the trouble to get past my carefully built defenses. She calls me her charity case. She’s another square peg, as she calls it. Most people think she’s from another planet, but that’s just because she does whatever she wants. She tangles with the cheerleader types sometimes—rah-rahs, she calls them. She’s nice to me, though, and she and Frank pretty much represent my entire social sphere.

Have you seen Frank? I asked her.

Well, let’s see. He’s about five-eight, kinda scrawny. She started to giggle.

I mean this morning. She was joking, right?

No, I was just going to ask you, she said, quickly regaining her composure.

Oh, was my slow-witted reply.

We split up to go to our first period class. On my way, I texted Frank to try to find out where he was. When I got there I heard the teacher say that Frank was sick. I tried texting again when class was over. During second period, someone came into class and gave Miss Amber a note. She looked at it briefly and pulled out a pad of hall passes. As she wrote, she called out Mr. Johnson... I looked up to see that she meant me. She finished jotting on the pad, tore off the top sheet and held it in the air. Mr. Buchanan would like to see you.

I never get called to the vice-principal’s office, so I was pretty tense when I knocked on Mr. Buchanan’s door.

Come in, was the answer.

I entered and Mr. Buchanan was sitting behind his desk. Sitting in the two chairs opposite were Mr. and Mrs. Cook.

Alexander, you know Mr. and Mrs. Cook?

Yes, sir.

Good. Mr. and Mrs. Cook would like to say something.

Mr. Cook spoke next. Alex, thank you for taking Sammy to the nurse yesterday. That was a good thing to do.

Is Sammy going to be okay?

He’ll be fine. It seems he has some bruises in addition to the scrapes on his face. Those are making him pretty uncomfortable, but the doctor says he’ll be up and around in a few days.

I thought about Jason kicking Sammy in the ribs.

Thank you for helping our son, Mrs. Cook said. As she spoke, she reached out to touch my forearm. I tried not to flinch, but I think she still noticed.

You’re welcome. I’m glad he’s okay, I said as I started examining the floor.

Mr. Buchanan spoke again. Can you tell Mr. and Mrs. Cook what happened?

Frank said he fell down.

No Alex, what did you tell me yesterday? asked Mr. Cook.

I... I...

Uh-oh. That pressure was starting to build up again.

I... don’t remember.

Alex, Mr. Cook began, putting his hand under my chin to get me to look in his eyes. Tell Mr. Buchanan what you told me yesterday. It’s very important.

Being touched on the chin was enough to get me squirming, but it was when I made eye contact with Mr. Cook that stark terror took over. I bolted from the room. As I was running down the hall, Mr. Buchanan was calling after me. Then I heard Mrs. Cook.

Let him go! Please! I told you we never should have expected... Her voice trailed off as I ran. I had to get to my thinking place. My hiding place, Patty calls it.

I ran across campus to the far end of the gym. Back behind some scraggly junipers is small utility room full of pipes and valves and things. The door is always locked, but the vent in the bottom panel of the door comes out if you know how. I crawled through and put the grill back in place. I sat down against the wall with my knees up under my chin and I immediately started to feel calmer as the dark, the quiet, the safety of the walls surrounded me. It’s funny how I feel safe in an enclosed space, almost like a warm embrace, yet I hate to be touched. It wasn’t until Mr. Cook touched me that I panicked. The only thing worse is if someone tries to hug me. When I was younger I’d sometimes haul off and slug somebody that tried that. I sat there listening to people pass between classes, the bells urging them on, and I began to organize my thoughts.

As I sat there in the dark, I wondered if I’d ever be able to function on my own. I was nearly an adult, and here I was, hiding like a scared child. How could I ever hold a job, if I freaked out like this on a regular basis? I was looking forward to a lifetime at the group home. Mom’s always insisted that I go to regular school, despite my Asperger’s. I’ve been mostly forced to adjust to the real world and there were times when I wanted to hide under the kitchen sink and never come out. Being different has always made me a target for bullies. I used to get bullied regularly at my other schools, but since starting high school it hasn’t been too bad. Just the occasional pejorative, like retard or rain man. I guess I have a little more control over my daily routine now that I’m older and I can sort of navigate around trouble. Hiding, Patty would say.

Gym class was still the hardest. The testosterone was on tap and sometimes I got knocked around. It didn’t help that I was skinny as a rail and got picked last for everything. Then there’s the locker room. Imagine yourself naked in front of strangers, multiply that self-consciousness by ten and you start to get an idea of how it was for me. It was worse in junior high because everyone seemed to be going through puberty but me. I was almost fifteen before it started. I felt like a boy among men. What’s more, I couldn’t help but stare. That almost got me in serious trouble a couple of times. All the locker room banter was intimidating, too. The guys would talk dirty about girls and they’d laugh and joke. I’d wonder, is that how I’m supposed to feel? And when they’d make gay jokes, it was even worse. Am I supposed to feel the way they’re acting?

All of these thoughts and more revolved ceaselessly in my mind as I sat in the dark. Eventually, I calmed down. I tried to call Frank a couple of times, but his phone just rolled over to voicemail.

Today was the longest I’d been in there in some time. It was getting close to the final bell of the day when I ventured out. There was no point in trying to go back to class, so I