Baptized By Boys

Chapter One

I dream sometimes. Everyone does. I can't ever remember my own, though. Neil tells me all about his. Sometimes he wakes me just to explain what all goes down in his head. I don't mind.

He likes to talk. I like to listen. And most of the time, when he wakes me, I had never fully fallen asleep. Because for some reason, recently, my dreams have been staying. Even when I wake. I remember them all. And I don't like a single one.

They aren't nightmares, no. Actually, they are quite nice, though I'd never tell another soul. Not ever. Not even Neil. Especially not Neil.

This time I'm awake for school. Mr. Keating had sent out another project, due tomorrow. Though he handed it out Monday. Still, how can I write in only one week?

I'm up for Neil too, who hasn't come back yet. He had rehearsal tonight. He has it most nights, meaning he doesn't roll in until later. Most of the time I stay up and make sure he gets back safe. Other nights I stay up to hear about his practice.

He invites me to sit and watch almost every time, but I don't think I'd be able to sit there and watch all the girls flock around him for that long. Jealousy is such a filthy emotion. Especially when it's over a boy.

And not in the way I want the girls to flock me, because if I'm to be fully honest with myself, I don't have a chance standing next to a stud like Neil. Not that it matters. Because in reality my jealousy fits in somewhere else. Somewhere wrong.

I suppose I lie when I say I can't write in only one week. Because I do write. All the time, in fact. Countless poems and scribbles of ideas litter my notebooks, which I've hidden from the world. Especially from Neil, who can never see these. Oh, I'd be a deadman for sure. I don't even want to imagine.

So instead I keep on writing.

I write of my dreams sometimes, and how I wish to warp them into reality. I write of jealousy and love. I write of what distracts me during lessons. I write about secrets and wishes. Then I don't share.

Perhaps I'd share with Mr. Keating if he didn't make us read such things out loud. He's a cruel man, that one, thinking that it will help. It won't. Reading my personal thoughts to my friends, to the world, it wouldn't be right. They wouldn't understand.

Someone like me can't change the ideals of the world. I'll save that for Bowie and Mercury, but not me. I'm only a boy. I'm not Neil. Now Neil, he could change anyone's idea on life with a simple look. If it were him up there reading my thoughts, then maybe everyone would look at things differently. Maybe the world would open up a bit. But it won't with me speaking the madness.

Weeks ago, when I stood in front of my classmates and shouted my own made up words, well, they weren't so much about Walt Whitman as they were about me. I'm the madman. The sweaty tooth madman.

And what a joke to have me walking about, instead of locked up with everyone else who thinks such crazy things. If only I were another Bowie. A Prince. A voice that doesn't immediately wash out.

The knob twists and a creak sounds, and suddenly I'm reminded of when Neil had complained not too long ago about the whine of our door. I should have gotten it taken care of, but here we are. Another night with rusted metal screeching.

My notebook is closed and I'm back to laying under my covers. I don't dare speak first. It's routine, and I'm not about to break it. Even if my poem isn't quite ready to be put away. It never will be, anyways. It isn't like I would ever actually read it out loud. So why bother?

"We've been roommates for how long, and you still refuse to greet me? Am I the only one who can start a conversation?" Neil means no harm, he rarely does. But I look up anyways, just to make sure. And there he is, standing tall, smiling with both dimples.

His scarf is draped over one side of his bed, and his winter coat now tossed in the wardrobe. I look away once he begins undoing the buttons of his drawers. It isn't my place to watch such things. I save that for my dreams.

"Well how was it? Meet any new girls?" It's the one question I hate to ask, but always do so.

He chuckles, just like he does every time, then he sits, and finally I look his way once again. There he is, shirtless and tinted grey from the moon. We are the opposite in that way. No shirt and pants, while I'm no pants and shirt.

"How many times do I have to tell you that there is no girl? We don't just randomly get more cast members. I'm working with the same ladies as before. And it went well, though Randy continues to mess up on her lines. You know what's crazy, Todd?"

I hum.

"You do better when you help me practice than she does now! With only a short few weeks away from the live performance! Can't you replace her?"

"I don't believe this audience would take too kindly to me playing a woman role." I offer a smile, even if he isn't looking.

"To hell with them, then. Besides, when have you ever cared?" Now he looks. And I look back, and of course I'm transfixed.

"Don't mistake me for yourself, Neil. You're the one who never cares, but me? I-I-..."

"You're not like that. I know, I know. You've spewed this all too many times before. Still, I don't buy it. There's more to you, Todd Anderson. One day I'll figure you out." Neil gives another satisfied grin, and I'm turning away before he gets the chance to question further.

"Goodnight, Neil."

"Goodnight, Mr. Mystery."

And just like that, it's back to the dreams.