I'm frightened when I wake up with an erection. Being told in Sex-Ed class that "morning wood" is a "natural and normal occurrence in adolescent boys" makes absolutely no difference. Because I see my dad's when I see mine. And I don't love him anymore, I hate him. I'm ashamed. Because I feel dirty. Because it feels so good. All these ingredients boil together in a witch's brew of disarray, foreboding and degradation. I can't bear to open up to Miss Halliday about the darkest details of my childhood, and her not being the pushy type is either a blessing to my mangled emotions or a defeat to my complete recovery and understanding.
Miss Halliday asks, "Do you think your parents committed suicide because they felt guilty about what they did to you?"
As I sit in a chair in her office, I only shrug at her, digging my index nail into the glossy, softened, splintered wood of the arm.
I wish I knew.
I'm diagnosed with anxiety and depression, and Miss Halliday prescribes Zoloft, which makes me feel everything less intensely, which is great for me, until Stacy remarks that it's making me into a zombie. After the first bottle is gone, I pretend to Miss Halliday and Lloyd that I'm getting it refilled, but I don't think I need it.
In September, she's ready to give up our weekly sessions and see me once every other month, but even with this new schedule, her hopes of getting me to trust her and volunteer my childhood skeletons are in vain. I just can't bear to let those memories out. I have to keep them in check, securely subdued in my mind, lest they assert themselves in all their hideous, pornographic detail. I can't talk about them to anyone, not even dear Lloyd. Close as we are, this is one topic that is too demoralising to raise even with him. I can't even talk about it with Stacy.
It's worse when Pastor Sellers talks to the adolescent portion of his congregation about how, now that our bodies are changing, we must take extra steps to avoid the sins of the flesh. "Better to cut your hand off if it causes you to sin," he says, "Or poke your eye out if it causes you to lust."
I'm already liable. My experiences with sexuality make me ashamed, and my inexperience with intimacy makes me withdrawn and lacking in that sophistication that most of the kids my age already have, but I have enough knowledge deep down inside to feel guilty about these new feelings. All I know are my feelings. There are no words in my brain when I look at Tammy, at his tall, strong body, the chiselled features of his godlike face, the dark stubble over his lips, jaw and chin, the eyes the colour of the ocean I love so much. There are only these wonderful, sinful emotions that surge through me and leave me weak and breathless. The more Pastor talks about them, the more guilt-ridden I feel.
So I admire him from afar. I stare at him at school, at church, on the football field, everywhere I can possibly see him. I'm happier and sadder and more ashamed than I've ever been in my life. I'm so determined to see him play football every single Friday night, whether it's home or away, that I'll suffer anything. One night it's below freezing. I put on three pairs of pants, three pairs of bulky socks, and four shirts underneath a heavily padded jacket, and let's not forget two thick pairs of mittens, and I'm still shivering.
"It's no wonder," Stacy remarks. "You're thin as a spindle! You need to gain some weight!" We buy hot dogs and hot chocolate at the concession stand, but I'm still frigid when they're sitting in my belly. I feel even colder when the game ends and I see Yvette running up to Tammy and kissing him on the mouth. His muscular arms go around her, lift her off the ground, and swing her in a circle. That night in my bed, I weep, wishing, and not caring how wrong it is, that I was the one Tammy had treated so right. My daydreams are of Tammy talking to me, holding my hand like he did in church, kissing me, touching me, loving me. My innocence dissipates rapidly during these horrible, beautiful months of my first year in high school. My usual nightmares go on sabbatical, and I'm waking up from dreams of Tammy leaning down, whispering to me, his lips close to mine, and I'm wet and my heart is only beginning to drop out of warp speed. I know what I'm feeling now. I know exactly what I'm feeling, and it feels too agonisingly good for me to care what the Pastor has to say about it. I'm a boy in love with a man.
I've never been in love... I've only been fucked.
I want to be loved. And I want Tammy to love me.
In October, the church has a rummage sale to raise funds to improve the building. As always, if there's a chance that Tammy will be there, even if it's with that slut Yvette, I'm there. They put Stacy and me over at the pots and pans and kitchenware table. We spend most of the day giggling at Yvette. She's been given the position of "supervisor", which means she's to stand in the middle of the yard and make sure nobody's running off without paying. She stands stock still, her jeans so tight around her big butt it looks like she's about to bust out of them, hands on hips, really swanky, just staring like a statue. The look on her face says she's doing all of us a favour by being there. Meanwhile, Tammy's supposed to walk around asking anyone if they need help, so he's walking, he's circling, over and over, like a tiger in a cage. He's not even asking anyone how they're doing, he's just pacing, circling, really fast, not looking at anything but the grass he's quickly mashing down. The whole thing is so comical that we can't stop laughing. Yvette standing there like a wax statue, in her old (she's probably had them since eighth grade) Jordache jeans, and Tammy pacing in a big circle at top speed.
After a while, they abandon their posts and come walking up to us with one of the other girls from school. My heart begins its routine maniacal thumping as Tammy nods at us, his customary salutation to nobody in particular.
Their friend walks right up to me. "You're sure pretty," she says, leaning into me with a huge smile. I nearly choke swallowing the poorly-chewed liquorice I've been gnashing before managing, "Oh, thank you," in a shaky voice, my lacquered eyes averting up and down, back and forth, seeking a safe place to land.
The girl straightens and regards me closely. "You know, you're wasting your time selling pots and pans. You ought to move to L.A. and be a Calvin Klein model. Don't you think so, Yvette? Don't you think he's pretty?"
Lard-Ash gives me a saccharine smile. "Sure," she says in her trademark blasé manner, "But shouldn't he have to be taller to be a model? He's kind of puny too."
I'm ready to crawl under a rock when the girl nudges Tammy. "Don't you think he's pretty, Tam?" My stomach somersaults painfully as Tammy's handsome face creases into a scornful glare, and he snaps, "How in the hell would I know?! I'm a guy!"
Their friend cuts her eyes up and insists, "Well, I think you're adorable."
My eyes are now fastened to the pots and pans in the box in front of me. I'm paralysed. I can sense Stacy grinning at me. I silently warn her to stop it.
When they walk away, Stacy squeals, "Tammy was looking at you!"
"Oh, please," I snort.
"He was smiling at you, kind of."
"He was pissed!"
"Yeah, he looked like he wanted to haul off and smack Yvette! I think he likes you!"
I give a dismal laugh. "Get real."
"I was watching him, Jamie! He had this goofy little smile on his face, and his eyes were on you the whole time!"
"You're full of shit. He was probably smiling at Yvette's nasty-ass crack!"
Ignoring the probable double meaning of what I've just said, Stacy argues, "Why?! Why do you think it's so impossible? You're beautiful!"
"No, I'm not."
"You really have no idea. You're gorgeous. Even that girl thinks so!"
"She was making fun of me!"
"Listen to you!"
"Just stop!"
"I think he likes you, Babe." She's resolute.
"Whatever." I look up from the box of pots just in time to see Tammy looking over his shoulder at me as Lard-Ash pulls him by his arm to her car. I ignore my rising panic and force myself to keep my eyes on him, scanning his divine face for any hint. I think I see something, but I can't trust my own eyes.
That evening, I try not to dwell on Yvette's mocking words. I try
not to analyse what I saw in Tammy's eyes when they met mine before he got into the car and rode away.
I know all about that "beauty is in the eye of the beholder" crap. I don't want to hear about it. I wouldn't believe him if he did come up to me and tell me he loves me, that I'm beautiful. All I see is ugliness when I look in the mirror. All I see is Mom and Daddy.
Another new year. We go to The End each Thursday, and one night Tammy gets up with Ray and Benny Feldman to sing "I Only Have Eyes For You". His deep, gravelly voice (Ohmygod!) leaves me melting with desire and dissolving into anguish. He's singing to Lard-Ash, and I despise her, sitting there winking and blowing kisses at him.
Eventually, they break up, but that's no consolation. He already has another bimbette at his beck and call. I'll never have him. I have to face it. And I try to tell myself to forget about him. I really try.
But it's in vain. I'm in love, and knowing he's infinitely off limits to me doesn't stop me from desperately wanting him.
The approaching pink and red romance of Valentine's Day makes my feelings for him intensify. I'm going to explode if I don't do something, so I buy him a card. It takes up all my strength as I carefully pour my heart out to him. I want to sign it, but I'm not stupid. Nothing will come of this. He'll believe it's from one of his female fans and I'll scratch my itch. Nobody will be harmed. I excuse myself from last period to go to the restroom, and I leave it on the windshield of his car.
Two days later, I find a beat-up white envelope in my locker. No note, no card, just three conversation hearts.
You're sweet.
Love me.
My love.
They're probably from Lydia. Poor thing.
But I keep them.
The next months are painful as I begin to realise that soon he will be graduating and I won't be seeing him around school next year. I try to savour every moment I can, but dashes of bitterness begin to taint. One day I hear a couple of girls talking about him, describing how he's slept with every easy girl in school and is now working on those from surrounding schools. Of course, I knew all along, deep down, but hearing it from those girls... I wait until I get home to cry.
And the hits keep coming. One morning Stacy confides in me that she and Ray have had sex. It hits me hard, and I flee to the restroom and have a bizarre panic/crying attack.
I've been left alone in a dark forest.
All my friends, all the people who claim to care about me are leaving me behind.
I'm so afraid and so angry! Damn, I hate them! I hate them all!
So now she's a woman and I'm still just the undersized dweeb in love with someone he can't have, now or ever. In the locker room I overhear Ray regaling his jock buddies about "finally" getting my best friend into bed. "She was ready, and she was willing!" I won't talk to her for at least two days. I feel so left out.
I'm not a goody-goody. I'm not angry at Stacy for losing her V because I think she should have waited for the marriage bed. I'm jealous, lonely, resentful, and wishing Tammy would deflower my ass.
The kicker, and yes, that's a pun, comes when I'm walking home one day after school and a soccer ball bounces near me. I go to pick it up and I hear a familiar voice roar, "Don't touch that ball!" I'm already bent halfway down and my fingers touch it when Tammy runs up to me. "I said, don't touch it! Are you deaf?!" I'm too stunned to react as he grabs it from under my floating fingers and jogs back to where he and the team are practising. I continue walking home, and as soon as I'm safely away from school grounds, I no longer try to stifle my sobs of despair. Stacy is wrong. He doesn't like me at all. He hates me, and I have no idea what I've done to provoke such rancour.
Obviously, that's still not enough. Even though she's now married and no longer in school, Lard-Ash begins to spread venomous rumours around town that I'm gay. How do I know? Because kids at both school and church are walking up to me, the ones who have never liked me taunting, the ones I get along with simply informing, "Yvette says you're a queer." And then one day, I'm walking home as usual when three sophomores jump me. I'm out of school for three days waiting for the welts and bruises to fade a little.
Stacy notices the subtle change in me after that. "Don't let them get to you, Baby."
"Everyone hates me."
"You can't let them get to you."
Then Ray tells me that Tammy is moving to L.A. after graduation, to attend broadcasting school, and my torment is complete. I've been thinking, well, at least I'll see him around town. But no. He's going to L.A. Might as well be going to the other side of the galaxy. He'll find a new harem to service him. Stacy and Ray will probably be getting married soon.
And I'm just going to stay the same, the same little loser that nobody loves.
It isn't a full two weeks after the first attack when I'm beaten up again, by the same three guys. They call me a faggot and pound me unconscious and leave me laying on the sidewalk, my homework scattered all around me like smaller victims.
I dream. I hallucinate. A voice says, "Come on, Jamie." My body is swooped into the air. I hear a door slam. The world around me is rumbling.
"Everyone hates me," I murmur.
The voice is familiar. "Don't worry about those assholes."
"Why does everyone hate me? What have I done? Even Tammy hates me."
For a moment, I think the voice talking to me has left me, then I hear it say, very quietly, "That's not true."
"He hates me! He yelled at me when I went to pick up the ball. I wasn't going to steal it! I was going give it back to him, but he screamed at me. He's mean! He's hateful! I don't understand what I've done to make him hate me!"
I feel a hand touching my hair, my face. "He doesn't hate you, he's just a prick sometimes." Then, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled at you. I was just..."
I shake my head violently, and even with my eyes closed, my head spins and aches. "He hates me! Nobody loves me! Nobody will ever love me..." My world blackens.
When I finally come to, I'm in the ER at Davis Hospital. I'm surrounded by bright, glaring white. An IV drips into me. I'm cold. I hate the plastic, medicinal smell all around me. My right arm is broken. For a while, they think my jaw is fractured, but the x-rays say it's just bruised. Stacy is here and she has the most idiotic grin as she says, "Tammy brought you here!"
She's so happy. The pain in my jaw is becoming unbearable.
"He chased those fuckers away and brought you here!"
I shrug and turn my face away from her. All I want is for everyone to leave me alone.
"He said he's been following you home since you got beaten up last time! He was worried about you! He told Lloyd not to let you walk home alone again!" Stacy is so excited it's sickening.
I look up to see my foster dad smiling at me.
I see it in his eyes.
He knows! He knows I'm in love! He knows I'm in love with Tammy!
He nods. Winks.
How did I get such a great dad? Why did God give Lloyd to me?
I manage a weak smile, willing to reassure him, but I'm too exhausted and beaten in body to keep it up for more than a few seconds.
"Here, let me sign your cast," Stacy says, gingerly adjusting my arm and using her teeth to pop the lid off a dark blue marker. Lloyd writes on the cast too.
I'm in the hospital for two days, and several friends from church and school have come by.
Back home, I finally muster enough interest to read all the autographs on the graffiti-decked shell holding my mending bones together:
Get well, Baby. Don't let them win. Don't let them have that power. People who hate you obviously don't know you. I know you and love you. Your bestest friend in the world, Stacy
You've been here before, and I know you'll be okay. Love, Lloyd.
I've never called him "Dad". I feel like an asshole for not calling him that. It's just that I don't want to call anyone with a good heart "Dad" or "Daddy".
Hi Baby, hope you feel better soon! Love Lydia
Miss y
ou, Take care, Deanna
Heal up, Ray.
Baby, get well soon. Sylvie
Babe, I hate those assholes and I hope they get what they deserve. Hurry back, Patti.
Benny, home on a three-day furlough, simply signs his name.
And on the underside, where the cast covers my elbow, in blue, wavy chicken scratch, as tiny as the felt tip had allowed, and palpably bashful:
You're wrong. Everyone does not hate you.
I read it again. And again. I nearly tear my rotator cuff reading it over and over.
I wrack my brain until it hurts, but I can't remember anyone writing in that spot, and it's not signed.
Twisting my arm painfully, I ask Stacy, "Who wrote this?!"
"Tam did, while you were asleep."
I shake my head. "No. He didn't."
"I watched him, Babe."
"Why didn't you wake me up?!" I'm riotous.
She just shrugs. Smiles. "He didn't want to bother you. He sat beside you and wrote where he could reach."
He's been shadowing me.
He's been worried about me.
He chased those guys away.
He drove me to the hospital.
He cares about me.
And it scares me.
I'd almost rather go on believing he doesn't know I'm alive.
After my insults from the second beating heal, there are only a few more weeks before school is out. Now everyone sees the difference, and Stacy gently tells me it's not a change for the better.
Crush Page 6
