6.2

Cries and Laughters

“Forget it, who am I kidding? She couldn’t possibly love me.”

Yes, here I am. I know, don’t remind me, let’s just get this over with.

What is it? Did I do something wrong? Let me guess — the suit’s not acceptable, right?

“I changed my mind. I want you to sing the solo, just like you did in practice.”

What? Are you crazy? You’re telling me just moments before the concert?

“I know you’ll do fine. You have the perfect voice for it.”

It’s not the voice I’m worried about, don’t you see? I look repulsive, I don’t want to face the crowd, I don’t want to draw attention to myself. Let me just get back in line. I’m already embarrassed as it is.

“You okay? Don’t be nervous.”

Nod. I won’t be nervous. But how do I erase the redness from my face? How do I stop my palms from sweating? How do I slow this pounding heart?

“Stand in the front row. And when I gesture you, walk forward a bit, sing the solo, then walk back and sing the rest with the choir.”

“OK.”

“Good. By the way, you look great.”

Ah, you don’t have to lie to me, I can take the truth. Or is this some sort of cruel joke? Tell him he looks nice, tell him he has a great voice, then have him sing the solo and make a fool of himself. What a spectacular humiliation that would be!

I wish you weren’t here, Stephanie, now you’ll be a witness to this. How can I ever face you again?

Look around, maybe she’s not in a good position to see. Oh, there you are, right behind me.

“You’re singing the solo?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“You’ll do great.”

Sweet girl. I could live in that smile . . .

Here we go, time to do or die. Stand up, forget about everything else, only the music. Focus!

There’s the piano. There’s the signal. Walk forward, ignore the audience, and just look straight ahead at the teacher. Now . . .

Hi, Stephanie, you look beautiful, did anyone ever —

No, no, how cliche, she must’ve heard that hundreds of times. Come on, use that brain of yours, can’t you think of something original?

Steph, do you want to go out —

Go out where? Movies? And how will you get there? Walk? Have your parents drive you? Ridiculous! What is there to do that doesn’t require a car? Nothing. She must live far away, at least too far to walk.

I love you, Stephanie, do you love me?

Yeah, right, like you’ll ever say that. And if you did, she’ll just laugh, maybe let you down easy, explain why she doesn’t feel the same. Can’t face her after that, and if she told anyone about it . . .

So awkward, so forced, can’t even imagine saying these things with a straight face. It’d be better to be natural. Say things you would say anyway, at least things you wouldn’t be embarrassed to say. But you’re just not that guy, anything you say will be contrived, and she’ll see through it.

How does anybody do this? Maybe it’d be easier if you were one of them, if you grew up in their culture, if you knew them from grade school. It must be possible because it’s done all the time. Am I the only coward?

It has to be the most natural thing in the world — every boy and every girl must go through it sometime. Then why is it so hard? When did it become such a ridiculous thing? When did love become a weakness, something open to ridicule, something to be embarrassed about? Because you open yourself up for rejection? Because you give them the advantage? Because they know they have the power?

Maybe if I catch her by herself . . . Forget it, who am I kidding? She couldn’t possibly love me. If she weren’t so pretty, if I thought I had any chance, I could ask her. Wouldn’t be easy, but I could. But if she weren’t so pretty, I probably wouldn’t want to. How ironic.

After the concert . . . more embarrassing than the concert itself. All the kids laughing and celebrating with their families and friends, and me just wandering around like a lost soul, waiting for my ride. They couldn’t be bothered to attend of course. At least I don’t have to walk home in this preposterous outfit. At night.

Just look busy. Say a few words to the teacher, go get a drink, go visit the bathroom. It’s almost over, the ride will be here soon enough.

Oh no, is that you, Steph? Not now, I can’t talk to you right now.

“You were great!”

“Really?”

“Yes! Everyone’s talking about you!”

“Thanks, I gotta go.”

“OK, see you tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

Maybe she likes me. No, wishful thinking, she’s just being sweet.

Diary:

Christmas is weird. People decorating their houses with all kinds of lights, just to be taken down the day after. All that work for a holiday . . . Crazy. Apparently, Father doesn’t think so as he had me help him decorate our house as well. The tree takes enough time, but to surround the house with so many lights . . . Maybe it just seems like work because I’m not part of the family, only an unwelcome visitor who shares the house and the chores.

The presents are even worse. Pretending to like them, pretending everything’s all right because everything’s supposed to be all right on this day. What a farce. I just want to scream, loud enough for the whole world to hear, scream until I can’t scream anymore. So many lies, ridiculous lies, I can’t stand it.

I can imagine how it might be in a real family where everyone loved each other. Things they do together, even trivial things like decorating the house, might seem like play. Certainly, I wouldn’t mind it if it was with Stephanie. God, I can’t think about that, I need to forget her.

I miss the old church. I miss Mother. I miss the friends I’ve left behind. The songs we sang around this holiday, the jokes we shared after services. The singing so rapturous tears would flow, and people would drop to their knees, caught up in prayer, in song. The extraordinary moments of complete abandonment, the emotions, the music, the feelings of uncontainable peace and joy. All gone now. Replaced by hateful people, stale religion, meaningless holidays, and lies. How much better it would be to spend time with people you love than with people you hate.

Diary:

Kinda sad, leaving junior high. Somehow I know I’ll never have this much fun at school again. Nothing will be this new, this cheerful, this magical from now on. High school, I’m afraid, will be too serious, grades too important, and the teachers too solemn. Everything probably too grown up for me. The year of the fairy tale is over.

But I’m ready, my English is good enough. Getting straight A’s should be no problem. It’s just that it’ll be boring, that’s all.

Signing yearbooks is hilarious. Why do they even ask me? I don’t have anything meaningful to write, and if I did, I still wouldn’t write it. So I write these catchy slogans I’ve heard on TV shows. They giggle when they see it — they think I’m insane.

I’m a prince again. I see the classic symptoms. High hopes, impossible standards of behavior, and respect from teachers and students alike. It must be the way I come off because they don’t know anything about me. And I enjoy it, walking around like I’m important, too important, and too good to be anyone’s friend. What a delusional fool I am. They may have started this image, but now I’m perpetuating it. I think I believe it at times — that I’m better than anyone, anyone in the world. How can I believe a preposterous thing like that? Certainly, I’m isolating myself again, but I don’t know if it’s because I feel I’m too good for them or because they’re too good for me. Probably both.

This guy in homeroom was nice to me, always acted like a real friend, and even invited me to his house. But I stopped being his friend after meeting his folks. Not that I was ever his friend, but I’d subtly discourage him from even talking to me, gradually but surely until he stopped altogether. Isolating myself like I’d done a hundred times before. But I felt bad. Felt really bad. Because it was the first time I did it on purpose, because I truly thought I didn’t want to be his friend, because everything about him seemed average at best. So what if he’s not too bright? So what if his jokes sound stupid? I’m not exactly a genius either, how ridiculous to feel I’m too good to be his friend. What arrogance! I shouldn’t feel this way even if I was the smartest person in the world. But I do, I can’t help it, I’m a bad person.

A serialized coming-of-age novel about a boy who must decide whether to live or die after surviving an abusive family and the death of his love. Read in order: 1.1, 1.2, 2.1, 2.2, 3.1, 3.2, 4.1, 4.2, 5.1, 5.2, 6.1. Next.