Someday

by David Levithan

  Second period is better because it’s Jane Eyre—it’s always Jane Eyre or To Kill a Mockingbird or Romeo and Juliet—and there’s class participation, so I raise my hand when the teacher asks about themes so far, and I’m saying it’s about how we all have secrets locked up that we don’t let the people we love see, because we know those secrets will scare them away, and I talk all about what Rochester’s keeping in the attic, and the teacher interrupts me to say we’re not up to that part yet in class reading, and I keep talking because you can’t really talk about the themes of Jane Eyre without talking about what’s in the attic, and then I’m talking about Wide Sargasso Sea, which I know this teacher hasn’t assigned—that was in another school—but the whole point of Wide Sargasso Sea is to engage in the themes of Jane Eyre, and I think maybe the teacher’s never thought about this because she’s looking helpless and I’m thinking I might as well be teaching this class, and I can see my classmates getting really into it, except maybe Greg and my friend Isabella, who seems to be signaling me to stop, but now I’ve totally forgotten what my point was going to be because I had to look at Isabella, and I conclude by saying really we should be reading Wide Sargasso Sea, too, to appreciate all the implicit colonialism in Rochester’s world, and the teacher is thanking me for my contribution and then she’s calling on Rick Myers, who I bet hasn’t even read the whole book yet, because he’s talking about Jane Eyre—the character, not the book—as a paradigm of innocence, and I’m saying, no, you’re not innocent if you’re part of the colonialist system, and the teacher is telling me it’s not my turn, which strikes me as a very colonial thing for her to say, but I don’t think anyone but me is appreciating the irony.

  I try to explain this irony to Greg and Isabella between classes but they seem annoyed, and I get a sense that I’m wearing them down, which is a good reminder that sometimes my friends are slower and smaller than I am, and maybe I need to act with friends like I acted with the songs this morning, and if I keep flipping through them, I’ll find the perfect one. But in the meantime, it’s fine if they can’t sing along to what I’m saying. I can’t expect them to understand everything I know, because empirically I know more than they do. Or at least that’s what the body is telling me, that’s the sense that I get, although I’m also trying to think as myself and I’m thinking the thoughts are way too fast and furious right now, like the body isn’t regulating how many my mind can take, so it’s sending more and more and more of them and one of the reasons I can’t be slow or small is because if I’m small or slow there’s no way I’ll be able to get to all of these thoughts that I really need to address in order to have any chance of doing anything at all.

  I’m still thinking of other things I could’ve said in English class and as a result I miss most of Spanish literature, which is an advanced class I’m taking because I have been surrounded by Spanish for most of my life, and suddenly I’m thinking the app I was thinking about before could be bilingual, too, and it’s making me sad a little because already I’m thinking there’s no way I’m going to be able to build an app all by myself, and there’s no way I’m going to be able to say the right thing to Rhiannon, and what if the reason I liked Wide Sargasso Sea so much is because I’m the one locked in the attic. And that thought could be very depressing, but then I’m thinking what if the attic is actually reality, and it’s everyone outside of it who isn’t real? What if I’m the truth and they’re just pretending to be the truth? What if I’m not hidden—what if I’m hiding instead?

  I ask Isabella this during fourth-period study hall and she tells me there’s nothing about me that’s hidden or hiding, which I decide to take as a compliment. She also tells me I’m being manic, and I think she’s jealous because I am clearly getting so much more done than she is, and understanding much more, and I am enjoying it, whereas she doesn’t seem to be enjoying anything. There’s a small part of me—the part that, hey!, is A, not Alvin—who understands what she’s saying, but the body doesn’t care about that. If anything, it greases the tubes so even more thoughts crash right into my head, and I can handle them, really I can, but not if I keep being interrupted by people or myself. There are also computers in study hall, so I tell Isabella I have something to do, and I go to the library computers and guess what? THEY HAVE BLOCKED FACEBOOK. So I have to use my phone under the table, and I’m getting to Rhiannon’s page when one of the librarians tells me to put my phone away, and I tell her that if her computers allowed me to go on Facebook, then I wouldn’t have to take out my phone—and I’m sure to say it nicely, not combative at all, because I’m thinking maybe I can persuade her to unblock Facebook, but she says that this is a study hall and that whenever a teacher assigns Facebook as worthy of study, she’ll unblock it. So I start to tell her that there are hundreds of social scientists who are poring over our use of social media to write the story of our times, and she politely tells me that I am not one of those social scientists, and I ask her how I’ll ever become one if my educational system does not appreciate the scientific value of analyzing what is inarguably the strongest social force of our time, and she says she’s not disputing that, but I interrupt and tell her that’s exactly what she’s doing when she blocks students from analyzing Facebook, and now she’s telling me I’m speaking too loud for the library, and I’m telling her I am perfectly happy to whisper my dissent as long as she is willing to listen to it. She smiles at that, then tells me I should put my powers of articulation to better uses, and I start to outline my attempts and how they involve Facebook and apps—and I guess she stops believing in my powers of articulation, because she excuses herself to go check out a book to a student, so I turn to Geraldo, the guy sitting next to me, but he just stares ahead at the computer he’s using, and I see he’s on Wikipedia and I can’t believe that the library approves of WIKIPEDIA but not Facebook, and I want to point this out to Geraldo but I know the subtlety of this distinction will be lost on him, so instead I give in and go on Wikipedia and try to learn more about Oliver Cromwell because apparently he’s very important.

  It’s in this pause that I try to step away from the body, try to be more of myself. But it’s hard. The chemistry is spelling itself out in distractions and enthusiasms. I’m on a high that has nothing to do with me, and it’s high in the sense that the steering wheel is largely out of my reach.

  The thoughts keep coming. The thoughts of Rhiannon, of “Say Something,” are there, but every time I get close to them, another thought gets in the way. The best I can do is try to keep my private things private. Because Alvin is not as discerning. I have so much to say, so I try to say it all. I have so much to feel, so I try to feel it all at once. I have so much to do, so I must try to do it.

  I talk all through lunch, and want to talk all through earth science. In art class I practically explode. We are supposed to be doing still life, but it’s like I object to the entire concept of a still life. Let my classmates try to sketch apples. I am trying to draw the person locked in the apple, the person in the apple attic, the way that attic must look from the inside. Charcoal isn’t enough to convey this. So I’m grabbing colored pencils and magic markers out of drawers, wondering why markers are considered magic while colored pencils aren’t. The teacher asks me what I’m doing, but as far as I’m concerned, anyone who would force an artist to draw an apple is the enemy. I am creating in a frenzy; I am taking all of those thoughts in their greased tubes and I am detouring them straight to the page. It’s brilliant. I can see the truth coming to life right in front of me. I am doing something only extraordinary artists can do: I am taking the shimmers and the unseen depths and I am making them tangible. I want the whole class to crowd around me and see how it’s done, and at the same time I want them all to go away, to leave me alone to perform this art-class miracle. I am on the precipice of something great—I am about to take the leap—and then the teacher interrupts me, actually puts his hand in front of my face because apparently he’s been talking
to me and I haven’t been hearing him, and now I don’t have any choice but to hear him and it’s like all my inspiration vanishes and I can’t believe this supposed art teacher just did that to me, and of course he doesn’t understand what I’m doing, of course he’s freaking out because what I’ve drawn does not resemble an apple, and I tell him he has to step aside before it’s gone, and he clearly does not like being told to step aside, because now he’s telling me we had an agreement and he’s invoking the name of Mrs. Schaffer, and he’s telling me Mrs. Schaffer was the broker of the agreement and he’s suggesting that maybe I need to go talk to Mrs. Schaffer right now and when I hesitate, he takes my art away from me, which really upsets me, because I haven’t even signed my name yet, and I can totally imagine him signing his own name on it and saying it’s his because even though he says it does not resemble an apple, he also must understand what I’ve just done and now he’s going to claim it as his own, so I do what I have every right to do, which is ask him to give it back, and he says he’ll put it in his desk for safekeeping—AS IF I CAN TRUST THAT—and he’s asking if he has to call Mrs. Schaffer, and it’s only then that I check and see that Mrs. Schaffer is some school psychologist, and I realize the only way out of this is to tell him, sure, I’ll go see her. I leave the classroom and then go somewhere else where I can use my phone until the bell rings. The part of me that isn’t Alvin knows it’s probably a good idea to see Mrs. Schaffer, but the body doesn’t like that thought at all, so it sends even more thoughts and—tricky!—I start to think about Rhiannon, and how it’s hours later back in Maryland, and now she’s gone almost twenty-four hours without a response from me, and if that isn’t a reason to give up, then what is? So I go to the men’s room and make myself comfortable in a stall and check Facebook and see Rhiannon’s post again. I want to listen to the song and sing along, because when it’s from Rhiannon it IS the perfect song, but there are guys using some of the other toilets and if I start singing they won’t get it, so I let it play softly and then I hit Like and then I think, No, don’t do that, and I hit it again to unlike it and then I get worried Rhiannon will think I’m unliking her, but the odds she saw it are very slim because I did it within a second, maybe two seconds, and I guess the only thing to do is to make a new profile, but I’m not sure how to do that on a phone. I’d have to log Alvin off and I’m not sure I’m in the right state to talk to Rhiannon yet and there are about a hundred ways I could make Facebook’s interface a much more user-friendly interface, and some guy is yelling, “Who’s playing music?” and I want to get my art back from the art teacher but if I go back there now he’ll know I wasn’t with Mrs. Schaffer, and I really think Alvin should talk to Mrs. Schaffer, but I don’t know where she is and his body isn’t going to tell me easily. I know the answer must be there somewhere…it’s getting up the energy to find it that’s the problem.

  And there’s also gym class to attend. Basketball. I totally get into the game. I am on fire. I am seeing superhuman angles. I am understanding the ball’s trajectory like no one else on the court. People are passing to me because they can see I know exactly what to do. Sometimes I get distracted by what someone on the bench is wearing, or the color of their sneakers, because it makes me think about what kind of sneakers would look best on my feet, but most of the shots I take end up in the basket. As we’re walking back to the locker room, Alex Nevens, who’s actually on the basketball team, tells me I was on fire. I don’t disagree.

  I can’t believe I haven’t written to Rhiannon yet, and I’m really wishing I hadn’t killed my email account as a way of killing the temptation to get back in touch with her. Then I realize it would be much easier to make a new email account than a new Facebook page, but I’m in math class and the same draconian phone rule applies, so I try to give my mind over to trigonometry, only my mind is bigger than that, and about halfway through the class a woman comes into the doorway and asks for me and I know immediately that this is Mrs. Schaffer and that even though there are only about twenty minutes left in the school day, I am going to be spending them with her.

  I go willingly. She asks me how I’m doing, and I see she has my piece from art class in her hand. I tell her the truth, which is that I’m doing great great great great great. Which is maybe too many greats, because I can tell she doesn’t believe me, and she seems super interested when we get to her office in how super interested I am in how the framed posters are all a little bit askew, like she’s testing all the kids with psychological problems to see if they think the frames are crooked or if it’s just their perception that’s off. I know my perception’s not off, so I share my theory with her, and I have to say that for a second Mrs. Schaffer actually seems a little bit embarrassed, because clearly she had no idea all her frames were crooked, but now that I’ve pointed it out she sees it, but she can’t go and fix them with me watching, because she is very conscious about power dynamics and that would make my power a little more dynamic, as it were.

  She asks me how much I slept last night, which seems to be a very popular question. I tell her I’m not sure, since I slept through it. But then I tell her three hours. Maybe four. She asks me if I could rate my energy level right now on a scale of one to ten, what would it be? And I tell her it’s normal. Which is a nine. Because a ten should be reserved for people like soldiers and astronauts.

  I am trying to do the best I can, even though Alvin’s eyes can’t help but be drawn to the frames, and finally I can’t take it anymore and very reasonably I say to Mrs. Schaffer, “Excuse me for a moment,” and then I straighten every single one of them. You’d think I had a level or something, they’re so even. Then I sit back down.

  Mrs. Schaffer says she’s concerned about me and that she is going to recommend to my parents that I get “an outside opinion.” I love that phrase because isn’t any opinion that’s not mine an outside opinion? I’m the only one inside. I’m the only one who knows. Even though I am pushing to remember that I am not actually the I here. As someone who’s supposed to be separate, who’s supposed to be an observer, I’m thinking, Yes, Mrs. S. Get Alvin some help. Because the inside opinion here doesn’t even recognize it’s an opinion. It thinks it’s the truth. And it’s wrong.

  I want to tell her this, but she’s dialing my parents now—she didn’t even ask me for the number; she already had it on her desk. And I’m getting mad not only because she’s tattling on me but because I feel she asked me a question and then cut me off before I could answer it. So as soon as she hangs up and tells me they’re on their way, I start to talk to her about what happened in English class, including the injustice of both the teacher’s behavior and the system that keeps people locked in attics. Mrs. Schaffer finds this interesting but doesn’t seem to have much to contribute, and then it’s like I blink and my parents are there, and I’m a little annoyed because I don’t think I’ve gotten to the point yet, and then I’m resentful because Mrs. Schaffer thinks she can introduce a totally different point of her own into the conversation, and then she’s asking my parents all these questions about me as if I’m not actually in the same room with them, and she says casually that my friends are concerned, and I wonder who the traitors are. But no. I am not going to let this get in my way. I’m not going to let their failure of perception affect the things I can do. I am excited to get back to my room and redecorate. My dad is saying the word committed and Mrs. Schaffer is saying that’s not what she’s talking about, that’s not the first step, and I want to tell them, yes, I am very committed to a lot of things, like my room, and people stuck in attics, and Rhiannon, and the thought of Rhiannon kicks me back into my own head a little more, and even though Alvin and his body do NOT want my input here, I am thinking I am going to go along with whatever Alvin’s parents want to do, and my body actually shivers at that thought, which I try to hide, but all the adults in the room see it and I can see them all filing it away, another symptom for them to Google tonight, because somewhere along the way we opened
Pandora’s box and found all this technology in there, and were all, HOORAY! THINGS! And then we realized or maybe only semi-realized—like, very occasionally realized—that the gods only left us this box because they wanted us to fragment ourselves, both as a society and individually, so now we’re all slaves to the fragmentation and some of us take it better than others and it’s not our fault that our bodies had all these circuits waiting to be blown, because it wasn’t until the box was opened that the circuits became vulnerable, and I just want to take Steve Jobs’s face and push it into some mud, although that’s not really fair because he was only giving us what we wanted, over and over and over again.