I was sixteen when I realized I was gay. For me, it wasn't like it is for other people. I could come out about it at school and to my family. The look on my father's face was priceless. My friends stopped hanging out with me when they found out about it, they thought I would hit on them. So I was cast into a group of girls who had always wanted to have a gay best friend. I don't regret it now, a year later. The girls are great and seem to understand all my guy problems. I started dating a guy two months after the great unveil but it just didn't feel right. It felt forced or something.
Being one of the few guys out of the closet at my school is difficult. I get teased a lot, mainly by straight guys who don't understand what I'm going through. They never will. Life is a game to see how many girls they can pull into the bedroom. I'm the guy who they run to after their hearts get torn into a million pieces by that one dude they can't stop chasing. I try not to give them advice, that more than anything, bugs the heck out of them.
It is the nineteenth of November, the blustery day pulling at the leaves on the trees. I stuff my hands into my pockets as I walk out to my car. I worked hard for my red Chevy truck. Night after night was spent at the local 7-11 trying to get the most out of minimum wage. It often takes me a couple tries to get it started but I'm not complaining, the freedom to drive is more than enough reward. The road to Archer High School is short from where I live. I have been told I am a good driver, but my younger sister is much better, she started two months ago. When I pull up into the lot at the school and get out of my truck, I can already hear minds of guys working, trying to come up with a snarky remark. They take two point sixty six seconds, but by then, I am already across the parking lot.
I make it to first period without getting shoved against the unforgiving lockers too many times. When I am under the teacher's eyes, my heart rate returns to its normal pace. The minute I step into a classroom, my chances of being punched go down exponentially. I take a seat, pulling out my sketch book and a finely tipped charcoal pencil. I love to draw. It is an escape from the world that doesn't understand me as I pour my heart onto pages that do. Today I draw a flower, just blooming into a world of green. The sun shines bright in my sketch. Brightness that doesn't happen outside of drawings.
The bell rings an annoying ding that makes me jump. A tsunami of kids pour into the classroom, pushing each other out of the way for seats. I sit quietly and continue to draw. I add the pollen dripping from the center of the flower. When I am finished, I hold it up to the light dumping in through the window. I don't normally add much color to my drawings because I like to think I can convey what the colors do with careful shading. Today, though, I splash the paper with pink, gold, blue and green, highlighting all the dark points with the colors. I flip the page over and write 'Youth' in the upper left hand corner.
My English teacher calls the class to attention and I look up, half listening to the gibberish that comes out of her mouth for seventy minutes every morning. My grades are A's and B's in everything but English. The words she wants us to read and write look like a different language. It is almost like reading German. If it were German, I would know I am not supposed to read it. With English, I know I'm supposed to read it. And that, ironically, makes it all the harder to read.
My parents have been convinced I have dyslexia since the fourth grade. But when they take me to the doctor, the doctor tells them I see the words just like everyone else. I believe I heard him one time use the phrase, 'a remarkably bad reader.' Words are just a complication. Living in an utterly silent world with no communication would be better than to live in a loud one and learn to read English.
I turn the page in my sketch book and look around the room. The girl sitting next to me looks like a good subject for my next drawing. I turn my desk chair towards her and focus. I stroke along her hairline first. Then I outline the desk she is leaning over, tracing along the arch of her back.
"Mr. Kype, do I need to ask you again to stop drawing students?"
"No sir. Sorry sir." I say, turning back to my desk.
"You were drawing me?" came a hushed voice from the desk next to me.
"Yes. I'm sorry about that," I tell her.
"Can I see it?" she asks. I am taken aback. For as long as I have drawn, not one person has ever asked to see my drawings. I pass the sketch book over to her, keeping my eyes to my book, pretending to read. She takes a long time looking at my drawing, inspecting every stroke of my pencil. "It's beautiful," she breathes.
"Thanks," I say. "I tried my best."
"You did a nice job," she tells me, pushing a pesky strand of hair behind her ear.
We left it at that and she passed the sketch book back. For the rest of the class, I stared at the letters and turned the page every so often, longing to continue my drawing. My thoughts drift as I think about how I would draw the brightness of her eyes. Wondering how I might convey the glow of her skin. The bell rings and I am about to get up when she stops me, "I'm Samantha," she says, holding out her hand.
"Bradley," I say, shaking it. I hitch my backpack onto my shoulder and walk to the cafeteria to find the girls. They are in the back-- at the table where they often sit-- giggling about something. I sit down next to my best friend, Rachel and start to eat my sandwich.
"Oh my gosh Brad! You will never believe what he said!" I don't enjoy being called Brad. I like Bradley much better, but I have told the girls countless times, and it always seems to slip past them.
"Hey," came a voice above me, not such a hushed whisper anymore.
"Hi," I say.
"I just want to let you know, if you need someone to draw, I don't mind," she says, smiling.
I smile back at her. "Thanks," I say.
She nods and carries her lunch tray to the other side of the cafeteria. The girls are silent for what seems to be the first time ever. I open my sketch book, staring at my half finished drawing of her.
I can't wait.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Knocking Him Straight
Novela JuvenilWhat if you knew you were gay and finally learned to accept it? What if you fell in love with a girl? Bradley Anderson is one of the only out of the closet gay guys at his school. He doesn't feel right dating guys but dating girls is even worse. He'...
