Authors: David Levithan
I see it in her eyes. I see exactly what Tony was talking about. That strange, twisted, torn love.
That conflict between what your heart knows is right and what your mind is told is right.
He's called her on it. And she doesn't know how to respond.
"I don't want to talk about this right now," she says. Her body language is pretending I'm not in the room.
"We don't have to talk about it. But Paul's going to stay until he has to go home for dinner."
"Tony, I'm not sure about that."
"We'll leave the door open. We can even go into the kitchen if you want us to. There are some girls at school whose parents have those rules when boys come over, even if they're just friends, so I guess that would make sense for me, too."
If I told this to my parents, there'd be an element of challenge in it, or sarcasm. But Tony's speaking is plain and simple. He is not crossing the line into snarkiness. He is making his point, but being perfectly respectful in tone.
I wish I could know what thoughts are going through his mom's mind right now. Is she trying to dismiss this away?
Oh, it's just a phase
or
It must be that evil Paul's influence
--
he's the
one to blame.
Is she devastated that Tony is beyond "saving"? Is she cursing fate -- or even God--for putting her in this situation? Is she embracing it as a challenge? I can see her thinking, but I don't know the thoughts. I am sitting no more than five feet away from her, but she's in a different world.
She looks at the walls, inhales and exhales.
"Leave the door open," she says. "I'll be in the kitchen."
Tony is speechless. He merely nods. His mom doesn't nod in return. She backs away, out of the door, down the steps. Tony looks at me. I burst out smiling. I clap without making a sound. He smiles, too. Then his smile falls and all of a sudden he is sobbing. He is shuddering and shaking and gasping. He has kept all this white noise inside him, and now some of it is coming out. His face is newborn raw, his arms wrap around his body. I move over to him and hug him tight. I tell him that he's brave. I tell him that he's done it--he's taken not the first step (that happened a long time ago) but the next step. His cry carries through the house. I rock him a little and look up to see his mother in the doorway again. This time I can read her perfectly. She wants to be where I am, holding him. But I know she will not say the things I am willing to say. Maybe she knows this, too. Maybe this will change, too. She looks at my face and gives me a nod. Or maybe she is finally returning Tony's nod. Then she retreats again.
"I'm sorry," Tony says, sniffling back into composure. .
"There's nothing to be sorry about," I tell him.
"I know."
I find my greatest strength in wanting to be strong. I find my greatest bravery in deciding to be brave. I don't know if I've ever realized this before, and I don't know if Tony's ever realized it before, but I think we both realize it now. If there's no feeling of fear, then there's no need for courage. I think Tony has been living with his fear for all his life. I think now he's converting it to courage.
Do I tell him this right now? I would, only he changes the subject. And I let him/ because it's his subject to change.
"What are you going to do about Noah?" he asks.
"Why don't you ask me what I'm going to do about Kyle?" I'm curious.
"Because there's nothing you can do about Kyle right now. But you need to do something about Noah."
"I know, I know," I say. "The only problem being that (a) he thinks I'm getting back with my ex-boyfriend, (b) he thinks I'll only hurt him, because (c) I've already hurt him and (d) someone else has already hurt him, which means that my hurting him hurt even more. So (e) he doesn't trust me, and in all fairness, I (f) haven't given him much reason to trust me. Still, (g) every time I see him, I (h) want everything to be right again and (i) want to kiss him madly. This means that (j) my feelings aren't going away anytime soon, but (k) his feelings don't look likely to budge, either. So either (1) I'm out of luck, (m) I'm out of hope, or (n) there's a way to make it up to him that I'm not thinking of. I could (o) beg, (p) plead, (q) grovel, or (r) give up, but in order to do that, I would have to sacrifice my (s) pride, (t) reputation, and (u) self-respect, even though (v) I have very little of them left and (w) it probably wouldn't work anyway. As a result, I am (x) lost, (y) clue-free, and (z) wondering if you have any idea whatsoever what I should do."
"Show him," Tony tells me.
"Show him?"
"Show him how you feel."
"But I've told him. That night. I made it clear to him how I felt. My words were out there. He didn't want them."
"Don't tell him, Paul. Show him."
"And how do I do that?"
-Tony shakes his head. "I'm not going to tell you. But I have a feeling that if you think hard about it, you'll figure out how to do it. If you want to be loved, be lovable. It's a good place to start.
I think about what's just happened. I think about bravery The risk of making a fool of myself in front of Noah is nothing compared to what Tony's just done. Nothing.
The Snoopy on Tony's clock is doing a disco-Travolta pose. It's time for me to go home for dinner.
"Do you want me to stay?" I ask.
Tony shakes his head. "I'll be okay," he tries to assure me.
"But your father . . . ?"
He'll deal with it."
"You don't have to deal with it by yourself."
"I know. But it would be better if you weren't here. My dad's actually more of a pushover than my mom, as long as things are a little out of sight." He knows what I'm about to say. "I know that's not right, Paul, but that's the way things are. And right now, I'm going to have to work with the way things are."
I nod. "Call me," I say.
"I will," Tony replies. He sounds so sure of it, I believe him.
Three hours later, he calls. My mom answers the phone.
"Tony!" she says, all happiness. "It's so good to hear your voice! I've been stocking up on macadamia nuts, so you'd better come over soon. I can even pick you up or drive you home, just like old times. You're always welcome here."
(Man, I love her.)
"In the next election, I'm voting for your mom to be the next God," Tony says when I pick up the phone.
"How did it go?"
"Well. . ." Tony's voice sounds a little glum. "I'm afraid you're not going to see the inside of my bedroom for a while." irony--
"But you
will
be able to see a lot of my kitchen. Just be sure to keep your hands to yourself, okay?"
This is what a small victory feels like: It feels like a little surprise and a lot of relief. It makes the past feel lighter and the future seem even lighter than that, if only for a moment. It feels like Tightness winning. It feels like possibility.
I was the first openly gay president of my third-grade class. I have seen men holding hands walking down the street in a big city and I have read about women being married in a state that's not so far away. I have found a boy I just might love, and I have not run away. I believe that I can be anyone I might want to be. All these things give me strength. And so does something as simple as talking to Tony on the phone after curfew, hearing that we'll be hanging out in his kitchen without having to lie.
It is, as I said, a victory. It might not last, but right now it means everything to me.
Possibly Maybe
It's a fine line between love and stalking. I decide to walk it. I want to do right by Noah.
Show him, Tony said. But really, I'm guided more by what Tony's shown me. I will not hesitate to say who I love.
On the first day, I give him flowers and time.
The night before, I unlock my closet of origami paper--over a thousand sheets of bright square color. I turn them all into flowers. Every single one. I do not sleep. I do not take breaks. Because I know that as well as giving him the flowers, I am giving him the time it takes to make them. With every fold, I am giving him seconds of my life. With every flower, part of a minute. I tie as many as I can to pipe-cleaner stems. I arrange bouquets and lattices, some topped by cranes. In the morning, I garland them throughout the halls, centerpiecing it all at his locker, so he'll know that they're all for him.
Every minute, every crease is a message from me.
On the second day, I give him words and definitions.
This isn't to say I talk to him -- no, I don't do that at all. Instead, I start a list of the words I love--
resplendent giddy trollop
-- and then I add definitions --
resplendent
--shining brilliantly
giddy
--lighthearted and flighty
trollop
--an untidy or immoral woman
Soon I decide to look randomly through the dictionary to find other unique words and definitions. I do this at Tony's kitchen table, with Tony at my side. We decide this isn't homework that we can swap--it needs to come from me.
scrappage
--material broken into scrap
mucronate
--having an abruptly projecting point, like a leaf or a feather
frequentation
-- the act of frequenting
Tony's mother drops by the kitchen twelve times in the first hour. First she asks if we need anything. After a while she pretends to need something herself--scissors from the drawer, a phone number from the kitchen notepad. Does she honestly believe that I will suddenly start ravishing her son on the kitchen table if she doesn't interrupt to get a glass of water every ten minutes? I guess there's no way to assure her I won't. Instead, we confuse her with my assignment, as I read aloud all the words that I find, simply by flipping to a page and choosing a word that I like.
debauchery
--indulgence in sensual pleasures
azure
--sky blue
isochronal
--equal or uniform in time Tony tells me he's been thinking of calling Kyle, just to see if he's okay.
"He probably needs someone to talk to," he says, "and it can't be you."
I know it can't be me, and say so. I think it's cool that Tony could help him with things. I don't know why it has never occurred to me before, but I can really see them getting along.
prophetic
--predictive, especially when ominous
vitreous
--of the nature of glass
dulcet
--pleasant to the ear; melodious
The words don't have anything in common. But that's what I like about them. There are so many words in our language; we get to know so few of them. I want to share some of the strangers with Noah.
After I jot down the words--a hundred in all -- I rewrite them nicely on a long scroll, under the heading
Words to Find and Know in this World
I tie the scroll with a ribbon that Tony salvages from his room, a ribbon from a gift Joni gave him for his last birthday. I ask Tony if he's talked to Joni lately. He says, "Kind of," but doesn't explain.
I leave the scroll of words and definitions at Noah's locker at the beginning of the day. At the end of the day, I find a scrap of paper in my own locker. Noah has given me a word of his own invention.
literogratumerriment
--thanks for the words
On the third day, I give him space.
It's Saturday, and I decide to leave him alone. I put a letter in his mailbox wishing him a good day. I don't want to overwhelm him with everything. I also want to give him (and myself) time to think.
On the fourth day, I give him a song.
Zeke has come -down to the dance hall because he's going to favor us with some tunes for next weekend's dance. I explain my situation to him, and he offers me some of his troubadour vibe. He asks me how I feel about Noah, and I tell him all my thoughts -- from the goofy to the sublime, the ridiculous to the tried-and-true. I give him materials of longing, materials of hope, and, like an expert quiltmaker, he sews them together into something grand and entire.
The whole dance committee (all but Kyle, who's opted out of the day) pauses to listen, then breaks out in applause when Zeke is through. Triumphant, he gathers us in his notes and leads us from the school gym into the streets, proud pied piper, swaying and grooving to his strum until we are all on Noah's doorstep, a parade of well-wished well-wishers delivering a song.
Amber pushes me to the front, next to Zeke.
"But I can't sing," I whisper to him.
"I think he'll know it's not from me, even if I'm the one who sings."
We call up to the bedroom. Claudia comes to the door, shoots us all an evil glare, then says Noah is in his studio. We prevail upon her to get him. Finally he comes to his bedroom window.
Zeke's voice fills the air with sweetness.
there is a once when I never think twice
you give me that, boy
you give me that
there is a kind which is much more than nice
you give me that, boy
you give me that
and now it's time for me to reveal
all the parts of me you've helped become real
to feel
there is a go that turns into a stay
you give me that, boy
you give me that
there is a dream which goes its own way
you give me that, boy
you give me that
and still sometimes I feel so much fear
there are parts of me I want to make clear
from here
there is a true which never rings wrong
I'll give you that, boy
I'll give you that
there is a word in search of a song
I'll give you that, boy
I'll give you that
let me give you that
I promise
I promise
to give you that
a dream, a song'
a never of wrong
a once, a twice
a much more of nice
a love, a love
a floating of love