Baptized By Boys

Chapter Two

People at this school often mistake me for my friends. Loud, obnoxious, courageous. A fool. But I'm not any of those, not really. And the only reason I, of all people, got invited to their club is because of Neil. Who, at the time, was just a roommate.

I like to think of us as more now. Not roommates, but friends? Pals? Something of that sort. It has to be so, right? A roommate is someone you share a room with, that much is obvious. But he walks me to class and talks my ear off at lunch. We take strolls after class, down to the pond. And sometimes he wakes the both of us up early enough to watch the sunrise. If we are only roommates, and nothing more, then my life might be a complete lie. Because for me, at least, Neil is my best friend.

Yet I still wish for more.

I'm not like my friends. I'm quiet, simple, cowardly. Safe. I always play things safe. The way I speak and how I move. Everything is almost always perfectly planned. Sometimes I stumble, but stumbling is better than falling on my face. And even with that being the case, people still avoid me in the hall.

I used to think it was because people thought I smelled or I was just too ugly to look at, but when I told Neil he laughed. Then he assured me that was most definitely not the case. I didn't know what he meant at the time, but then I studied the group further. I mean, seriously, people really avoid my friends. I think it's because they fear the fearless. And yet they still fear me.

To this day, months into the school year, I still sometimes wonder if my friends don't like me. They could just be tolerating me for Neil's sake. I don't know if that scares me or if I don't care at all as long as I'm on Neil's good side. All this talk of Neil is making me aware of how often I actually think about the boy. It's funny how I make him appear out of thin air in a conversation that had fuck nothing to do with him. Guess some could say I'm a magician in that way.

I suppose I'm not much of a comedian either, though Mr. Keating sure is. He never fails to make me laugh. To make anyone laugh. That man is the best and worst teacher I've ever had. The best in the way he keeps everyone's attention. The way he sucks you in with a simple look and nod. His constant flow of ideas that always keep you wired and ready for more. However, he's the worst in the way that he is always overstepping and pushing each and every one of us past our limits. But I suppose that's what makes him the best too.

Speaking of the man, I've just arrived to his class. Thank god Neil hasn't been talking, as he usually does, because I wouldn't have heard a word. Lately I've been in my head too much. Talking to myself too much. I wonder if my grades are slipping, and if I care at all. My parents will only lecture and that will be the end of that. Either way, I'm too anxious to check. So I won't. If they are slipping I'm sure I'll find out soon.

"Good evening everybody. No lecture for today, though I'm sure you're all very sad about that." He stops to get a good look around before faking a sob. Then he smiles and turns to step the other way, now taking a seat at his desk. Apparently he has gotten himself a new rolling chair, because out rolls the man. He goes down the isles, as serious as ever, while he takes role. Everyone knows not to laugh, even when he stops so suddenly at your desk to give you a heart attack. Whoever laughs first is always up first. And I assure you it will not be me.

Mr. Keating is rolling by me right now and I think he knows better than to stick to me for too long. I just will not break. Now if it was Neil rolling past me on a chair, I'd double over. Everything he does makes me smile. Maybe I am a fool.

"Seriously? No one? Even after I got my new chair? Which you all remember what happened last time!" The man laughs and so does Dalton, which is a rookie mistake. The boys will for sure give him hell for it later.

Keating howls and whistles before calling him up and rolling back to take his seat along with the rest of us. He calls it his own little theater. The stage fright, the acting, the not so good acting. He's odd. Marvelous, but odd.

"Mr. Dalton, step right up, step right up!"

"Yeah, yeah." The boy takes a stand. He struts, confident as ever. I can't believe him.

Then, from his back pocket, comes a crumpled, white sheet of paper, which he now reads off ever so enthusiastically.

"Dear Welton Academy.
It's now the late eighties.
And though there are plenty of hotties here to see. These men will not satisfy all my friends needs."

He's taking a bow and I have no idea what to do with my hands. Not only was that very suspicious in wording, but also plain bad. I want to laugh and gasp all at once. Yet I sit here with my mouth agape.

Luckily others are cheering and sending their support. They're not thinking into it like I am. But how can I not?

"I call that, Hey For The Love Of God Welton, Please Get Some Girls."

"Very well performed, Dalton, but maybe next time find something that strikes your heart and not the audiences fantasies?"

"Maybe, Mr. K, but I'm very passionate about this issue, as you can see."

The man simply chuckles and sends him back, now searching for his new victim. And of course he is looking my way. Fortunately Neil interrupts my almost doom. He stands, one hand slightly raised, reading glasses on. "If you don't mind, I would like to go?"

"By all means, the floor is yours."

I mouth a thank you, which he sees. I know he did this for me, and that he would never do it for another of our friends. For some reason Neil is always gentle with me. I used to think he felt sorry for me, but now I've convinced myself he just favors me. Anyways, Neil smiles and nods. He holds a neat paper in one hand and my heart begins to race.

The whole room falls silent as we all eagerly lean towards him, eager to watch the performance. He's always breathtaking, but for some reason this time he seems more on edge. More unbalanced. Cautious. I don't know, it's hard to read him like this.

Most of the time he doesn't even take the paper up, but now it's all he looks at. His eyes so desperately gaze towards it, unable to look anywhere else now. He clears his throat and then waits a few seconds more.

"All my life is a sculpture.
A mold made out of steps.
Steps that have been followed.
Steps that aren't my own.
My mold is hardening.
But maybe in the future.
When I am set with a woman I do not love.
And with children I never wanted.
I'll shape my own boy with clay.
So that I may live my wishes through him.
Just as my own father had done with me."

He stops now and no one moves. I don't move. But then he does.

"I know I'm not too good at poetry. I do much better with short stories. I, I don't know."

He's stuttering. Stumbling. How can I help?

"That's nonsense, Neil, it was beautiful. Right from the heart. Exactly what I love to see, especially with young men like yourselves. Take this as a lesson, kids. Let yourself be vulnerable. Vulnerable is not weak. It is brave to be vulnerable in a world shaped, or molded, so against being human. Humans are magnificent. But humans, to societies standards, are plastic. Perfect and privileged and plastic. I beg of you to break the mold before it breaks you first."

I don't always know what he means. Most of the time I struggle to keep up, but I think I get it this time. I get everything. My mold is often shaped by my own parents as well. And my brother. Lucky for Neil, he's Neil, so of course he will find a way to break free. I'm stuck here.

"Now, Mr. Anderson. I see you hiding, so let's get this over with, aye? Oh, you didn't bring it? Well, you know the drill, close your eyes and start spitting. Let's see what you make of it this time."

My eyes roll, but he knows I'm only joking. And he isn't lying, because I do this every time. It's become habit. A routine. Something that everyone just expects at this point. And honestly I'm almost tempted to break from the mold now. Maybe get out my own poem and read it aloud at last. I don't.

Instead I go ahead with the spinning. And I spew some shit.