Diary of a Witness

by Catherine Ryan Hyde

  Thanks, as always, to Vance and Suzanne for being my trusted (and honest) “first readers.” Special thanks to Diane Stevens, whose feedback helped shape the early trajectory of Ernie and Will’s story. And a very special thanks to my friend Jenny for teaching me how to fish.

  In memory of Lenny Horowitz,

  my high school English teacher.

  One caring person can turn the tide.

  And you did.

  November 4th

  Will Manson stood up for me today. Against the jocks. Stupid. Nice, but stupid. I wish he wouldn’t do stuff like that. It’s so wrong. Will’s my best friend, though.

  Oh, who am I kidding? He’s my only friend.

  It was gym class, which has got to be the worst of an already bad situation. But I’m pretty used to it. More or less. As much as you get used to a thing like that. I’d just gotten out of the shower, and I was walking back to my corner to get dressed. As fast as I safely could. It doesn’t pay to go too fast. It draws them. Like when dogs see a cat running away It brings out the worst in them.

  I got snapped with a towel from behind. Right on the butt. It hurt, but I kept that to myself. It almost knocked off the towel I was wearing, but I grabbed it and held tight. Laughter from the rear, then some comments about laying off the Ho Hos and Twinkies. Nothing I don’t hear pretty much every day of my life.

  Then I heard Will’s voice. He said, “Why don’t you leave him alone?”

  Really stupid. I was almost to my corner. Then it would have been over anyway. All he was doing was pouring Zippo lighter fluid on the fire. Still, you have to like him for stuff like that. In a weird sort of way.

  By the time I looked around, the jocks had him by the throat with his back up against the wall. The usual suspects. There were five of them. I’m not even sure I know all their names. I’m pretty sure there’s a Mike and a Dave in there somewhere. Then again, you can’t throw a rock into a group of guys without hitting a Mike or a Dave. And you know what? They’re cowards. Know how I know? Because they always attack in a pack, like a bunch of coyotes. Only cowards would be sure to outnumber their help-less victim by five to one.

  Will isn’t fat. But he catches it all the same. I think it’s partly being new. Also smart doesn’t help. Plus usually when he opens his mouth, something geeky will fall out. He’s skinny, too skinny, and has big ears that stick out away from his head. And the worst acne ever. Sometimes it hurts to look at him. But I do anyway. I’m no picnic, either, so I still do. I think if his skin cleared up and he got his ears pinned by a plastic surgeon, he might be okay. If he never once talked.

  The chief coward was talking so close to Will’s face that you could see Will blink because he was getting spit on. “And what’ll you do if we don’t, huh, Charlie? Tell your mother? Oh, that’s right. You don’t have one.”

  I’ll say this for Will. He didn’t go at them. I could see how easy it would have been. I could see it on his face. I was thinking, Fight the urge. Be calm. I mean, what good does it do to charge five big jocks? They could just beat you to a pulp and walk away laughing.

  I watched Will’s face, and it just got redder and redder.

  Will moved here from L.A. with his father at the beginning of the school year because his mother left them for some guy. We hit it off right away, because we have three big things in common. We each only have one parent. We each really like to fish. Even though his fishing and my fishing are pretty different things. And, most important, neither one of us has even one other person who wants to be our friend.

  He doesn’t talk much about his mother. The one time it came up, he just said what he always says about home: “That’s life in the Manson family.” Will thinks he was shot down before he was even born, because it’s so hard to grow up with the name of a famous murderer. I think maybe he’s being too dramatic. But I’m not sure he’s entirely wrong. He takes a lot of crap for it. That’s why they call him Charlie. That should be the worst thing they ever call us.

  But you’d think they’d leave you alone about a thing like your mother. I mean, your mother. Damn. Something’s got to be sacred. Instead they attack you on just that front. Like they have to call you a space alien for having that happen to you. Otherwise a thing like that could happen to them, too.

  It’s a theory, anyway. I’m full of theories about the popular guys. I’ll never know if I’m right, though, because I’ll never be one of them.

  Poor Will. I never saw anybody get that red. The guy who was holding him called him Lobster Boy, and they all walked away laughing.

  I got dressed fast, and Will and I walked out into the hall together. I always breathe when I get out into the hall. Like I’m breathing for the first time ever. Not that I haven’t been tortured in the hall, but gym is worse.

  I said, “Why do you do stuff like that, Will?”

  He said, “You’re welcome.”

  “Yeah, okay. It’s nice and all. But it just makes it worse.” The trick is to get small. Never look in their eyes. Never look at them at all. Just look down at the ground and try to get so small you’re hardly even there. That’s the only thing that helps. Except when it doesn’t.

  “You’re right,” he said. “You raise an interesting point, young Ernie.” That was a line we heard in a TV movie. We’ve been using it ever since. “If I really wanted to help you, I’d figure a way to get you out of gym altogether. And I might have just the thing.”

  “I’m not going to maim myself. If that’s what you mean.”

  While we walked, I did the usual routine where I found lots of reasons to turn my head. If we passed a locker with stickers on it, I turned to read them. If a pretty girl walked by the other way, I followed her with my eyes until my head was almost all the way around. Pure ruse. Not that I don’t like pretty girls, but it’s not in me to stare. I was watching our backs. Making sure nobody was bearing down from the rear. But you can’t just keep glancing nervously over your shoulder. Not unless you have a death wish. That’s like the equivalent of bleeding into the water if you’re a fish. You become this living, breathing advertisement for sharks.

  “I knew a guy in L.A. who got a pass from gym. All he had to do was tell the guidance counselor a heartfelt story of grief.”

  “He just told him he was suffering in there?” Nothing is that easy. Right?

  “No, he told him he was gay.”

  “I’m not gay.”

  “Neither was this guy. But he said he was. And that he was so scared because he thought every time he cut his eyes away, the other boys would know. Very sad story.”

  “They didn’t make him go to counseling or anything?”

  “No way, Jose. They can’t do that. It’s discrimination. He wasn’t mentally ill. He was gay. Be proud, Ernie. You are a proud, well-adjusted young gay man. You just can’t hack dressing with the boys. They’ll pretend to understand, but really they’re so paranoid they don’t want you dressing with the other boys, either.”

  “Wow. I don’t know.” My brain was spinning around. How come when something really hurts, the only solutions hurt just as bad? “I’m not sure which is worse. Gym class or telling the guidance counselor I’m gay.”

  “Tough choices. Indeed.” Will talks like that. Actually says things like indeed. “But consider this. Gym class is every day. You only have to tell this story once.”

  He had a point there. “I’ll sleep on it,” I said.

  “Get Mrs. Menendez. She’s sympathetic. Besides, I have a lot in common with Mrs. Menendez.”

  “Name one thing.”

  Will rolled his eyes at me. Sometimes he just couldn’t believe I was so stupid. His idea of stupid was anybody who couldn’t follow his twisted train of thought. “Alex, I’ll take Famous
Murderers for five hundred. Answer: the Menendez brothers. Question: Who are the two affluent young men who murdered their parents in cold blood with a shotgun?”

  I shook my head. “You have murderers on the brain.”

  “Alas,” he said. That’s another thing he actually said. Alas. “My legacy.”

  Then we made a sharp right into biology lab. Without incident. We actually made it from the gym to the biology lab without incident. Red-letter day.

  Now I seriously have to sleep on this Mrs. Menendez thing. That’s got to be a weird thing to sleep on. I can just see myself tossing and turning a lot tonight.

  November 5th

  Mrs. Menendez sat back in her chair and sighed. Her fingers were in that steeple mode. I wonder why people do that. They act like it helps them think or something. Like their brain is in their fingers.

  “I understand this is a very tough issue for you, Ernie.” I got the sense that this whole thing involved practice. The serious look of pity. The understanding. Like an actor who can do a part without even much thinking. “But I really hate to see you miss out on physical education entirely. P.E. is so important.”

  “Especially for me, right?”

  She shot me a hurt look. I bet she practiced that, too. “Now, Ernie, you know I didn’t say that.”

  No, but you were thinking it. But I didn’t say that. I just stuck with the no. I just said, “No. You didn’t.” But you were thinking it.

  “Maybe we can work something else out.”

  “Like what?” This was already taking a bad turn. She should be writing out my pass by now.

  “Maybe Mr. Bayliss will let you use the gym during lunch hour, or after school. Tell you what. I’ll write him a note, and you take it to him right now. And then the two of you can talk about what to do.”

  “I don’t want Mr. Bayliss to know about this!”

  “Well, how can we excuse you from P.E. without telling him? Let him help you, Ernie. You have to be willing to let people help you.”

  Why did I let Will talk me into this? I should’ve known this would turn into a major disaster. See, this is the problem with small-town living. You keep running into people who actually care. It’s so irritating.

  While I was feeling sorry for myself, she was writing out the note.

  “Thanks,” I said, and stuck it in my jacket pocket. Where I knew it would stay. Maybe forever. Or maybe when I got home I would burn it.

  I showed up to gym class fifth period as usual. I knew I was in deep doo-doo when I heard Mr. Bayliss say, “Ernie Boyd? Anybody seen Ernie Boyd?” I was thinking about running away. Skipping entirely. Maybe even leaving school. Then I saw his head sticking around the corner. He had this really thick sandy hair that was cut so short it stuck straight up on top. It made him look like a scrub brush, only upside down. “Ah, there you are, Ernie. You have some kind of note you were supposed to show me?”

  I could hear my heart pounding. I knew the panic on my face would give me away. “Uh. No.”

  He cocked his head over to one side. “No? Mrs. Menendez said she wrote you a note to bring me.”

  “Oh. That note. Yes.”

  “You still have it?”

  “Uh. No.”

  “Well then, how about if I call her and get her down here for a little conference?”

  “Uh. No. You know what? I think I do remember where I put that note.”

  “My office,” he said. And then the scrub brush disappeared.

  Mr. Bayliss had shelves full of trophies lining the walls of his office. Must have been from sports teams in the old days. All this year’s sports teams bite.

  I just sat there feeling about an inch tall while he read the note. I also felt kind of sick to my stomach. But maybe that was a good thing. Maybe if I threw up in his office, he’d forget all about the note. But it wasn’t really bad enough. It wouldn’t turn into throwing up, but it wouldn’t go away.

  He set down the note and looked right at me. I looked at my shoes.

  “Ernie,” he said. It wasn’t good the way he said it. “You’re not gay.”

  “You don’t know that. How can you know what’s inside of me?”

  “Ernie, Ernie, Ernie. Just last week I heard you talking about Amy McPhee and how hot she is. The week before that, you came in here with a Victoria’s Secret catalog in your gym bag.”

  How humiliating. “I didn’t know you saw that.” That was a bad answer. I should have said I was in denial, or putting up a brave front. This was just getting worse and worse. I would’ve given anything to start this morning all over.

  “I know why you want to get out of gym class,” he said. “It’s no more embarrassing than being gay. I would think you’d’ve told the truth. The truth is no harder.”

  “Oh yes, sir. Yes it is, too. The truth is always harder. Because it’s the truth.”

  Mr. Bayliss sat back and sighed. And put his fingers in that steeple mode. I kid you not. They must all rehearse together. They must cover this stuff in teacher school. “Make you a deal,” he said.

  I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like this deal.

  He pointed to the shower in the corner of his office. His own private shower. “See that shower? That’s your shower for the rest of the year. And this is your dressing room.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t hate the deal. He was helping me. They never actually help you. It was amazing. “Cool. Thanks.”

  “Here’s what you have to do for me, though.”

  Oh. Should’ve known. That was way too good to be true.

  He pointed to the full-length mirror across from the shower. “See that mirror?”

  “Yeah …” Did he think I was blind or something?

  “And that scale next to it?”

  Uh-oh. This was getting ugly. The scale was one of those vicious doctor’s office things with the weights that slide over, so you see the answer right in front of your nose. “Okay. What about it?”

  “When you get out of the shower, I want you to stand in front of that mirror and look at yourself. And then get on the scale.”

  I could feel myself getting dizzy. My heart was pounding in my ears, and it was like all these silent voices were screaming at me to get away. Just start running and never stop. Like I could really do that even if I tried. I don’t think I said anything at all.

  “Look, I’m not trying to shame you,” he said. “That’s why I’m giving you your privacy. I don’t want you to be ridiculed. And I’m not saying you should ridicule yourself. I just want you to keep your eyes open. Look the problem head-on. I don’t want to help you be in denial about it.”

  I just kept looking at my shoes.

  I never look in full-length mirrors. Never. If I catch a glimpse of myself in a store window, I quick look away again. We don’t even have full-length mirrors at our house. My mother doesn’t want them, and neither do I.

  “Ernie. Do we have a deal?”

  “Yes, sir.” It was better than showering and dressing with the other guys. Besides, if I didn’t look, and I didn’t weigh, he would never know.

  “Okay, good. I’ll clear out now. See you in the gym in less than five.”

  I started to get undressed. I was thinking this wasn’t such a bad deal. Then I looked up, and there was the mirror. You couldn’t miss it. You couldn’t help but look. At first I sort of had my arms in front of my middle, but then I just dropped my arms and stood there.

  Then I got on the scale.

  Don’t ask me what came over me. But there was nobody there but me. Better to find out in private than at the doctor’s. I might as well see how bad it really was.

  About 200, I was thinking. If Mr. Bayliss had asked me how bad I thought it had gotten, I’d have said around 200. I tapped the little weights into place: 242. I was officially more than 100 pounds overweight.

  I sat down on the scale for a few minutes, and then I got up and put on my sweatpants and T-shirt. And joined the other guys in the gym. They were playing dodg
eball. Ah, geez. Anything but dodgeball. There should be a law against that game. It’s like legal torture.

  Will looked surprised to see me, but I just kept avoiding his eyes.

  This guy named Alex and this other guy named Kenny had gym class with us, fifth period. And even though Will and I weren’t exactly friends with them, we had a certain amount in common. That is, they weren’t exactly jocks, either. Not quite the “it” crowd. So I could sense the four of us trying to look out for each other throughout the regrettably legal viciousness that is dodgeball. Trying to have each other’s backs. Kind of a professional courtesy.

  All through the game I was thinking I’d have to do something. This had gone far enough. It’d be hard, because I couldn’t tell my mother I was going on a diet. She’s bigger than me. There’s just no way I can say a thing like that without making her feel bad about herself. Without hurting her feelings. Maybe I could say my appetite was off and I didn’t even know why.

  After dodgeball Will came up to me. “It didn’t work?”

  “Not exactly. I didn’t get a pass. But I do get to shower and change in Mr. Bayliss’s office.”

  “Good deal. Problem solved.”

  I knew I had a bigger problem than that, though. Thanks to Mr. Bayliss, I was looking it head-on.

  When I got home, my mom was standing at the stove. Stirring with a wooden spoon in the big pasta pot.

  “Your nose does not deceive you,” she said. “I made your favorite dinner.”

  Fettuccine Alfredo. She makes the noodles from scratch. It’s the best, most wicked, most addictive thing anybody has ever eaten. My father used to call it death on a plate. The sauce is made out of half a cup of butter, a whole cup of heavy cream, and a whole cup of Parmesan cheese. I don’t even want to think about how many calories it has. Well, you don’t. That’s the thing. You don’t think about it. When you eat fettuccine Alfredo, it means you give up, you don’t care about the calories. It’s like when you’ve been flailing around in the water trying to get someone to rescue you, but then you give up and just sink. You stop caring and sink.