Nathaniel Jean's Senior Year

3: Nathaniel Jean's Worst Moments

The last week had been harder than most, and my lack of sleep was starting to take a toll on me. Two to four hours a night wasn't enough, yet I couldn't seem to get any more.

As usual, Lucas Morgan was to blame. He hadn't uttered a sentence during the car rides I'd given him all of last week, but his words from the week before still clung to my memory and refused to let go. Each night, as I tried to sleep, they made their attack on my mind.

I didn't know what to think anymore. This small town in the middle of Nowhere, Nebraska has always been my home. The people here had shaped my thoughts and beliefs as I grew. It was here I learned that men were to love women and vise versa, no exceptions. But if Lucas could be so proud with himself, there had to be others who were, too. Kenny was.

      Now it was a question of who was right, and who was wrong. Up until that Thursday, I wouldn't have hesitated to say that my town was right. That Lucas and Kenny and anybody who believed that what they—we—were was okay, was wrong. Now, I wasn't sure.

     I wanted to be sure. I'd spent my life being sure. Yet I couldn't help but wonder what my life would be like if I didn't see my sexuality as a sin. Would I be happy? Would I be confident, like Lucas?

      Internal conflict was no stranger to me. The matter seemed so black and white, yet there was no easy answer. Back and forth, my brain fought throughout the nights. And it was starting to show.

     Half-dressed for school on Monday morning, I stopped as I passed the floor-length mirror propped against my bedroom wall. Dark  shadows framed my eyes. My pupils seemed dilated. I looked duller somehow, as if sleep deprivation was sapping the life from my skin.

      I spent another minute staring at my reflection in the bronze-rimmed mirror, something I didn't do often. I could've looked worse. In whole, my appearance hadn't changed drastically. My body was still toned and sun kissed from all my time playing soccer. My hair was still dirty blonde. My eyes were still blue. I was still spotted here and there by large freckles—beauty marks, maybe. One was still on my left cheek, another still against my hairline, a third still right below my ear. Several still dotted my torso and back. I was still me.

I knew I was attractive. People didn't hesitate to tell me so. It was a fact—on the outside, I looked good. If only everybody knew that what was inside was much uglier.

My body was just a mask, and I hated that. My entire life was, really. Everybody assumed that Nathaniel Jean was perfect. When people looked at me, they saw the good-looking star athlete with a lot of money and a lovely family. Nobody saw the kid with the dirty secret who was failing half of his classes and had no relationship with his parents. Nobody saw the insomniac who skipped dinner and hadn't seen much reason to take good care of himself in years. Nobody looked close enough to spot the circles under my eyes, or my nervous mannerisms, or my sour mood. Nobody reached out a hand to help, and I never asked for one.

All that they saw was what I projected on the outside. Or maybe that was all they wanted to see. Maybe they, just like me, didn't want to accept that I wasn't so beautiful.

I didn't even realize how frustrated I was until my fist shot forward and I heard a loud crack. My image in the mirror shattered as shards of glass clattered to the floor. I stared, shocked, at my hand. Blood streamed down my forearm from my knuckles and splashed against the wooden tiling beneath me. Small shards of glass protruded from the cuts along my fingers.