“It is sad, Ken Z,” Mr. Oku says.
“Holden was like the friend we could’ve saved,” CaZZ says.
“But perhaps DOPE sees Holden as a bad influence instead of a troubled teen,” Mr. Oku says.
“So instead they want us to read books we can’t relate to,” CaZZ says, which means the less we connect with the stories, the better.
“Reading about vampire virgins is safer,” I say.
“Imagine when it’s your books, Ken Z,” CaZZ says. “Books about us, our experiences, our stories, our memories, our histories, this place—South Kristol.”
“They’ll probably get banned before the others,” Estelle says.
“Why do you say that?” Mr. Oku asks.
“Because how dare we write our own stories, in our own voices?” CaZZ answers.
“True that,” Tanya says.
“Banning our books would be their way of erasing us, of making us—and the world we live in—invisible,” CaZZ says.
“Pretty soon, they’re going to make us believe Robinson Crusoe was stranded on an island without natives living there,” Matt says.
“Or Huck Finn crossed the Mississippi River without Jim,” Estelle says.
“They don’t want us to read about our side of the truth,” I continue.
“You tell it, Ken Z,” Tanya says.
“So what’s going to happen to the Earnest Book Club?” I ask. “Is this it? After us, no more Oscar Wilde?”
“That’s the other reason for this meeting,” Mr. Oku says. “Apparently, Principal Deedy found out about our book club.”
Tanya turns to Matt.
Matt immediately reacts. “Why look at me?”
Tanya steadies her glare on him.
“I would never snitch,” Matt says. “I promise to God.”
“I believe you, Matt,” Estelle says.
“Thanks.”
“I don’t think it came from any of you,” Mr. Oku says. “And that’s what we have to keep in mind. Pointing fingers won’t get us anywhere. We have to stick up for each other more so now than before.”
“So what did Principal Deedy say?” Matt asks.
“We’re no longer permitted to use the classroom to hold our meetings,” Mr. Oku says.
“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard,” Tanya says.
“You mean to tell us, Mr. Oku, that it’s okay for church people to use our campus every weekend? But God forbid if we use our own classroom to talk about books once a month?” Estelle asks.
“Apparently so,” Mr. Oku says.
“What if we meet off campus?” I suggest. “Can they still ban us?”
“Absolutely not. They can ban us teachers from assigning Oscar’s books in class. But outside of school, they cannot stop me, you, or any of us from reading them.”
“Then good,” CaZZ says, “because Allan Isaac and his LGBTQ posse want to continue the Earnest Book Club next year.”
“Aren’t you afraid, Mr. Oku?” Matt asks. “What if you get in trouble?”
Mr. Oku shakes his head. “Absolutely not. They can ban it in school, but there isn’t a law in South Kristol against having an Oscar Wilde book club.”
“Not yet, anyway,” CaZZ says.
“Gee, I didn’t know reading could be this dangerous,” Tanya remarks.
“Reading is only dangerous to those who are afraid to imagine,” Mr. Oku says. “If there is one thing I hope you got out of the Earnest Book Club, it is that each of you is not afraid to use your imagination. That you have accepted Oscar Wilde’s invitation to dare. The dare to read books, banned or not. The dare to think. The dare to imagine. The dare to speak your mind. And the dare to be yourself.”
“Viva the Earnest Book Club!” Estelle shouts.
“Viva Oscar Wilde!” Tanya yells.
“Viva us!” CaZZ roars.
LAST RITES
Surrounded by books
Oscar Wilde spent his last hours
Dying and reading.
THE OUTCAST LIST
I’m a labyrinth of I’s.
A winding staircase of whys.
A wall of doubts.
A sea of uncertainties.
A walking excess emotional baggage.
A dust in progress,
like our prom king and queen,
though they don’t want me
in their Palace of Acceptance.
It’s fine.
Belonging is overrated anyway,
and overcrowded.
I’m happy being the Emperor
of Loners and Library Loiterers.
Plus I’m a proud member
of a Wilde-worshiping club
that also stars a born-again jock,
a gender blurrer,
a cheerleader at the bottom of a pyramid,
and a girl warrior.
Fierce and fine.
We’re queer that way.
Very Wildean that way.
CAZZ’S ADVICE TO OUTCASTS, YOUNG AND OLD
Howl back like the winds
Embrace the storm that you are—
Love, Hurricane CaZZ
Thursday-Morning Memento
THURSDAY, 18 APRIL. MORNING. MY BEDROOM.
ME: Great. Just great.
OSCAR: What’s the matter?
ME: It’s Elroy. He’s missing.
OSCAR: Elroy?
ME: My emperor penguin paperweight. It’s gone.
OSCAR: Oh dear. Where did you last see it?
ME: Right here. On my desk. Where it should be. (Sighing) Ran always played with it whenever he came over. He’d toss it in the air, then catch it with his palm.
OSCAR: Aha.
ME: What?
OSCAR: Could it be…?
ME: You don’t think he…?
OSCAR: Well…
ME: What would he do with it? It’s got a chipped flipper.
OSCAR: The more special.
ME: But why would he take my broken penguin? To spite me further? Was breaking my heart not enough?
OSCAR: Memento, my dear Ken Z. Memento.
ME: To remember me? For what?
OSCAR: Because, Ken Z, you’re a rarity. Emperor extraordinaire.
Coda
Friday, 19 April. Afternoon.
One of the few things I learned from voice lessons (See False-Start List) is the coda. Its symbol is a cross over an O, like what a sniper sees through the scope of his rifle when he’s aiming at a target. In the world of music, it is an extended passage that concludes the piece; it makes the composition whole. Mr. Harris, my former band teacher, likened it to an afterthought, sort of like the PS in a letter. But a very important one, for it gives an ending, a closure, to a musical journey. Quickiepedia describes it best, as “an addition that ends a piece or a movement.” Tonight feels very much like that. A coda.
We are in my room. CaZZ, Estelle, and me. The Three Musketeers, Little Pigs, Blind Mice, Stooges, Amigos. CaZZ said they were in the neighborhood and decided to surprise me. I don’t buy it; I know them better. They know it too. They’re here for two reasons: (1) to make sure I didn’t have a relapse and end up back in the gutter, and (2) to know more about the evolution of my romance. It’s their way of feasting on my love and, at the same time, getting me to let the pain out.
Estelle’s approach is more subtle, playful. But CaZZ’s tactic is asking frank questions that force me to face facts.
“Ken Z, were you two ever an official couple?”
I mull over her question.
The closest Ran and I got to being officially us was him asking me:
“Ken Z, want to be random with me?
”
The closest I got was “Yes.”
I shake my head. No, it wasn’t official, unless I count the time he confessed to me that he wished it had begun the way ours did. And though I did not ask him what he meant by IT, I had an inkling that IT was another love, from another time, with another guy—or girl. I did not want to open that can of worms, so I’d glossed over it.
“What difference does it make, CaZZ?” Estelle asks, sounding a bit irritated. “Official or not, it was love.”
“I’m sorry, Ken Z. I didn’t mean to offend,” CaZZ says. “I only wanted to hear about the romance and it came out the wrong way. I know you’re heartbroken, but I’m glad you experienced it.”
“Yeah, Ken Z, you were in such a daze,” Estelle says, “you were walking past cloud nine.”
“Was I that obvious?” I ask.
They both nod. “We knew something wonderful was up,” CaZZ says.
“Hello?” Estelle says. “You gelled your hair.”
“You were so damn cute, so charming,” CaZZ continues.
“You were vervacious. You were Ken Zing,” Estelle says, complimenting me with two words from her Dictionary of Made-Up Words.
“You had on a smile we had never seen before,” CaZZ says.
I roll my eyes. “Well, so much for that.”
They detect my sarcasm. I fall silent. I can feel the heavy sinking feeling coming on, but it doesn’t linger.
“Ran might be the most unwanted person on your list right now, Ken Z,” CaZZ says, “but if there’s one awesome thing that he did, it’s that he changed your world.”
CaZZ’s remarks make me think of Ran’s last Zap.
Estelle jumps in and says, “She’s right, Ken Z. But you also changed his.”
“Not enough,” I say. “Or he wouldn’t have pulled a Houdini.”
“Maybe it was getting too much for him and he got scared,” CaZZ says.
“I was scared too,” I say. “We could’ve been scared together.”
“Synchronized scaredy-cats,” Estelle says, laughing, then: “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”
I laugh because CaZZ does.
Then she sobers up. “Maybe his mother found out.”
“Let’s not waste time on maybes,” Estelle says.
“She’s right,” CaZZ says. “Just one more question. What’s your last memory of him?”
Another question to mull over. I rewind time to that last night. I can see the two of us in my room, standing, embracing, holding on to each other’s stillness. I open my mouth, but the memory has me by the throat. The first word cracks in my voice. I can feel my eyes tearing up. The memory is too raw; the wound is still healing.
Estelle senses my discomfort. From the corner of my eye, I see her sending a signal to CaZZ. “Detour, CaZZ, detour.”
“It can wait, Ken Z,” CaZZ says.
“Yeah, Ken Z,” Estelle says, winking. “Share it when you’re good and ready.”
“So what do I do now?” I ask.
“Well, going to North Kristol is definitely out of the question,” CaZZ says. “Too many red flags. Too expensive.”
“Too risky,” Estelle says. “Plus you don’t know where he lives.”
“You might end up getting interrogated,” CaZZ says. “They’ll want to know who you’re looking for and why.”
“It will only double the trouble,” Estelle concludes.
“I guess I have no choice but to start all over,” I say.
“No, Ken Z,” CaZZ says, “you keep going forward. You have your notebooks, your haikus, your lists. At least he didn’t take those away.”
“Yeah, at least Ran didn’t pull a Bosie on you,” Estelle says.
“Because you didn’t let him,” CaZZ says.
I nod. They’re right. At least Ran did not take me away from my notebooks. I still wrote when I could. I wrote because I wanted to save everything.
“Can you imagine if Ran got in the way of your haikus?” CaZZ asks.
“I’d go to North Kristol and hunt him down myself,” Estelle says.
“Me too,” CaZZ says.
“What you need is closure-foreclosure, Ken Z,” Estelle says.
“I agree,” CaZZ says.
“How?” I ask.
The three of us fall silent. Then the answer hit us all at once.
“Hello?” Estelle says, overlapping with CaZZ’s “A list!”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Of course it is, Ken Z,” Estelle says. “You’re the Jedi Master of lists.”
“May the list be with you,” CaZZ says.
She and Estelle laugh.
Because I laughed.
SENT MONDAY 3/18, 2:23 A.M.
Ken Z—
“The world is changed
because you are made of ivory
and gold. The curves
of your lips rewrite history.”
ALMOST
Almost heart.
Almost dear.
Almost us.
Almost done.
Almost scar.
Almost sigh.
Almost there.
THE HOW-TO-DEAL-WITH-A-BROKEN-HEART LIST
Take up yoga.
Bang my head until I reach nirvana.
Avoid watching romantic comedies, they always end happily.
Avoid watching romantic dramas; they always end in death.
Start a support group for ghosting victims.
Avoid musicals, especially with dying teens in them.
Make an anime tracing the evolution of my stupidity.
Upload my pain on U-Tube.
Work on perfecting my OCD skills.
Count the number of dots inside an impressionist painting.
Upgrade my suffering: study the mourning rituals of gorillas.
Avoid sci-fi flicks, especially with dying teens killing each other.
Stick to horror and cooking and home repair shows.
Pack up for Antarctica.
Get a second, third, fourth opinion on me.
Stay in corpse pose forever.
The Problem with Good and Bye
What am I supposed to do with all these wonderful feelings and memories mixed in with the not-so-wonderful? I’m stuck. And Ran is no help. I’m not sure he’ll ever reappear. I’m not counting on it.
So if he’s crossed me out of his life, does this mean I have to do the goodbye thing all by myself? Is that even possible? Don’t you need two people for a goodbye to work? One says it while the other, who will agree or not, listens. Two. Just like its total number of words.
“Good.” As in “Good riddance, Ken Z!”
And.
“Bye.” As in “No!”
So how can I bid him goodbye when he is not here to say it is or isn’t so?
Specifics
When I was small, my mother used to teach me Japanese words. One of the things she told me was never to use the popular sayonara when bidding goodbye, especially to her or anyone I loved. I forgot why but her warning stuck with me. I never got around to asking her. Maybe it’s because I never needed to. Until tonight.
On her way to her room, I stop to ask her what the other word for “goodbye” is in Japanese, other than sayonara.
“There are many,” she replies. “It depends on who’s saying it.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a ‘goodbye’ for the one who’s leaving.”
“Which is?”
“Ittekimasu.” She spells the word as I jot it down in my notebook. “But that’s a goodbye that means ‘I’ll be right back.’ And the person he’s talking to will reply ‘itterasshai’ or ‘ki o tsukete,’ which are
goodbyes that mean ‘Please go and come back’ and ‘Take care.’ ”
Fascinating how specific the Japanese are about their goodbyes. It reminds me of the Inuits and their different words for snow. I guess there are different ways of falling, as there are different ways of parting.
“What about sayonara?” I ask. “I remember you telling me never to use that word.”
“Japanese people seldom use it. Not unless they mean it.”
“Then how come it’s so popular?”
She shrugs. “Maybe Americans never bothered to learn the other goodbyes because there are just too many or they were too lazy to remember. Or maybe it’s the only goodbye the Japanese taught the Americans when they occupied Japan during the war.”
“Why? What does sayonara mean?”
“You only say that when you’re not going to see the person for a very, very long time.” She pauses before adding, “Perhaps never.”
“As in goodbye forever?”
She nods.
I imagine gazillions of people bidding each other sayonara without knowing what it really means.
I look up to find her smiling at me faintly, a tinge of sadness in her eyes.
I smile back to let her know I’ll be all right. “Domo arigato, Ma,” I say, thanking her in her native language.
She welcomes me with “Do ittashimaste,” then “Oyasuminasai, Ken Z.”
“Good night to you too, Ma.”
As she’s about to close the door, she says, “Make a list, Ken Z,” which, to her, holds different meanings. Tonight, it means “recharge.”
“I will, Ma,” I say. “I will.”
“Sayonara, Ken Z….”
“Sayonara, Ran.”
HEART
Learn from the clouds.
The Importance of Being Wilde at Heart Page 18
