Love Drugged (2 page)

two

The trouble started in January. I was sitting in the school cafeteria with Wesley. He had spent several lunch periods giving me grief about my decision not to try out for the baseball team. Conditioning had started over the winter break.

Wes gestured at me, as if his hands held magical powers of persuasion. “Dude, you played in sixth grade, you played in seventh grade, you were
good
last year—why not this year?”

“This is high school, Wes,” I said. “Bigger pond, out of my league.”

I’d gotten the same heat from my dad about not playing ball. But I knew that high school sports involved crowded locker rooms, with showers. In my mind, it meant a catastrophic boner disaster waiting to happen.

“It’s worth a try,” Wes said. “You can hit. Besides, the chickies love baseball players.”

Chickies? Where had he learned to talk like that—
West Side Story?
Wes had grown about a foot taller since summer, and with the height, he’d developed a new appreciation for “the chickies.” Obsessed, he let his eyes roam the cafeteria like a scanning device. His running commentary was remarkably comprehensive, almost scientific in scope, but his standards were pretty loose. One good feature on a girl was worthy of recognition, even if the rest of her was average. I prayed that his enthusiasm might rub off on me.

At the time, my strategy was to wait it out, get through high school. I once read an advice column in the local free weekly that said the best time to come out was when you had some independence, some resources of your own. The column said you needed a safety net. This made sense. Like my grandparents’ brick building, I didn’t stand out. I wasn’t like the seventh-grade “sissy” who came and went. I thought if I kept my head low, I could fly under the radar all four years and make it out alive.

“Hey, now there you go, Mr. Picky,” Wes said, facing me almost in challenge. “There’s one worth your time. Over at the cash registers.”

More like a waste of my time
, I thought, but I turned to look.

There was no arguing this one. The girl was spectacular. Her shiny dark hair framed a face that was a wonder of genetic good fortune—small features, large brown eyes. She was tall and thin-waisted, with plenty of curves. When she saw us looking at her, she smiled and waved. Then she started coming our way.

Wes sputtered. “What the … ?”

Funny thing was, I already knew this girl. She came straight to where we were sitting and perched her cafeteria tray on the edge of our table. “Hey, Jamie,” she said. “Don’t forget, Mr. Covici asked you to bring the treats next week.”

I nodded. “He can count on me.”

She grinned. “Hmmm, if you’re bringing the treats, maybe I’ll skip breakfast.”

“Not recommended. I’ll probably just stop at the gas station on the way to school.”

“Well, I know you won’t disappoint us.” She patted my shoulder, turned on her heel, and walked away. The faint trace of her perfume lingered, exotic and expensive.

When she was out of earshot, Wes hissed, “
Who the hell is that?
”

“Celia Gamez,” I said, pleased to impress him. “I’m in a club with her.”

He seemed skeptical. “Which club?”

“The First Knights.” This was a service club my parents had made me join—a small group, and not because it was selective. But even I knew that things like that would look good on college applications someday.

“Celia Gamez,” Wes said. “I know that name. Yeah, my cousin Mimi went to junior high with her. That girl lives in, like, the biggest house on the North Side.”

“Is that right?” I said, only half interested.

“She digs you.”

“Sure she does, Wes. And those chicken fingers are made from the plump hands of
real chickens!”

“But she does,” he insisted. “Didn’t you see her flirting?
‘I know you won’t disappoint us.’
Damn, maybe I should join one of these gay clubs.” He turned and faced the wall, where a bulletin board advertised the Art Club, Book Club, Chess Club, Debate—a complete alphabet of school activities.

Celia moved across the cafeteria, and I tried to see her through Wesley’s eyes. It was easy to appreciate how pretty she was. But below the belt, I felt nothing. Hopeless.

Wes reached up with one of his long skinny arms and tore down the Art Club flier. He scribbled something on it with a Sharpie. He smiled wickedly and asked, “Hey, Jamie, wanna join my new club?” He held up the flier, which now read:
FART CLUB. Every Monday. Come show off your special talent!

Wes and I had been friends since the fifth grade. We were both transfer students that year, “the new kids,” and the teacher parked our desks side by side in the back of the room like a package deal. On the first day, during class, Wes leaned across the aisle and reached for my new box of twelve Faber-Castell pastels. “Can I see those?” he whispered. I nodded and handed them over, unopened. The teacher was explaining fractions, how you broke numbers apart and piled them on top of each other to make a different kind of number. I followed along in my textbook, but after a minute I looked back to see what my new buddy was drawing. He wasn’t drawing. All my pastels were broken into halves, and he’d spread them across the desk in mismatched pairs. Fleetingly I thought:
Are those … fractions?
Wes smiled at me, lifting his shoulders as if to say,
I have no idea how that happened.
I was too stunned to report him to the teacher. Later that day he broke a science lab window “by mistake” with a football.

What fascinated me about Wesley was his fearless energy. He was so confrontational, always on offense, unafraid of collisions. In the sixth grade, I tried to be like him. I stopped tucking in my shirt, ignored my comb, left shoelaces untied. If Wes playfully shoved me, I shoved back. I tried to imitate the effortless noise he made by being himself, the chaos he caused just crossing the room to sharpen a pencil.

Wes wasn’t out of control every day, but the threat always lurked. Nobody ever knew what to expect from him. Then, during seventh grade, he changed. Almost overnight, he became calmer, more focused at school. He still called attention to himself, but it was more controlled and positive, more like regular confidence. The teachers liked him, and students learned to trust him. At the time I chalked it up to maturity and discipline; it wasn’t until later that I learned the credit went to medicine—a twenty-milligram, time-release tablet after his breakfast each morning. Ritalin—the first miracle drug I knew by name.

I declined Wes’ offer to be a founding member of his Fart Club.

I had a study hall after lunch, and my habit was to go to the school library to kill time. Maxwell Tech was a public school, one of the biggest in Chicago. Nearly one hundred years old, the school spread across a full city block like a fortress. It was crazy loud, too many students competing for limited space, calling out insults, filling the halls with squeaks as they scraped their tennis shoes along the polished floors. The teachers only added to the din, shouting for students to show respect, take off hats, return to class. Yet the teachers always smiled, a little strangely, like someone had pinched them in the ass, too.

The school library was relatively quiet. Plus, it offered thirty computers with excellent Internet access and a worthless filter. The first time I visited a site for gay teens, it was on a whim. It felt safe; everything was anonymous. Granted, my user name wasn’t very creative: Chicagojamie. It didn’t seem necessary to call myself Alex or Johnny or Pete; there were thousands of Jamies in Chicago. Besides, I only lurked in the chat rooms—never chatted. I never made plans to meet people or hook up. Everybody knew the horror stories about creepy adults pretending to be teenagers. I never visited these sites on my parents’ computer at home or left traces for them to see.

Since October, I’d been following a thread about scary movies. People always listed recent slasher movies, the cheesy kind that went straight to video. Nobody seemed to have seen anything really excellent. One day, I boldly chimed in.

Chicagojamie:
has anybody seen Rosemary’s Baby? the best! esp the scene in the telephone booth. or the scene with the Scrabble pieces. u MUST rent if u haven’t seen it.

I pressed
enter
and held my breath. It felt like crashing a party. I prepared myself for a flood of negative responses:
Who are you?! Who do you think you are?! Who asked you?!
To my surprise, nobody responded. The thread continued about the same stupid movies. I scrolled back again, to confirm I had, in fact, sent the message. There it was, sandwiched between all the others. My first comment—posted and ignored. I nearly logged off, when a private message appeared in the upper corner of my screen:

LaLaBoy15:
Chicago, love that movie! Ruth Gordon rox! Have u seen Mia Farrow’s other scary movie from that time—See No Evil? blind rich girl is in a big country house full of bloody corpses and she doesn’t know it. Faaaaaaabulous.

My chest filled like a balloon with joy. Then another private message appeared:

Burtlovesernie
: Ro’s Baby is da bomb!! Good call. Scary movies were best BC—Before Carpenter—right? Try to find Let’s Scare Jessica to Death from 1971—hippies versus vampires!

I disagreed about Carpenter (
Halloween
is a slice of perfection) but I responded to both of them, promising to rent these titles.

Just like that, I was hooked. My free period became the one time of day when I could connect to guys who liked the same things as me. We chatted about actors we liked, usually the ones who looked good without shirts. We talked about our favorite movies—thrillers or romances that featured actors without shirts. I created an email account for ChicagoJamie, so we could exchange photos of shirtless actors and models. Shirtlessness was our religion, and we all said the same prayer:
Please Lord, send me someone with abs like those!

We never chatted about sports. Sure, there were sites for guys who liked sports, but I didn’t visit them. The kind of drama I liked best couldn’t be summed up in a sports page headline.

I met a seventeen-year old guy online who had seen
Wicked
nine times on Broadway. This blew my mind. Besides
Oklahoma!
, I’d never seen a show more than once. The boys who lived near New York City couldn’t believe I didn’t see more shows in Chicago. I could be candid about a lot of things online, but I didn’t know how to admit—in a clever or attractive way—that my family didn’t have much money.

On these sites, we spent a lot of time joking about “the island.” The island was where we’d all be forced to live once our families and friends shut the doors in our faces and told us we disgusted them. Weird, in retrospect, how we accepted this fate, as plainly as we expected that someday we’d move out of our parents’ houses for college or jobs. Away from our families, we’d all gather together under the sun, the way the newspaper and CNN showed guys partying at the Pride parades each June. Muscular guys with their shirts off, drinking frozen drinks and dancing. Yes, sir, that was our island.

Offline, whenever I pictured the island, I didn’t imagine sand, palm trees, coconuts, or laughter. I pictured only the vast water—deep and cold and blue—that would separate me from everything and everyone I knew.

three

The First Knights met before school, usually on Tuesdays. I arrived even before Mr. Covici, the librarian, who was also the club advisor. The library door was locked, lights off inside. It always felt weird to see the school hallways empty. My snowy shoes left puddles on the floor.

Soon Mr. Covici appeared, carrying a bundle of newspapers in each arm. Bespectacled and balding, with an outdated wardrobe and formal demeanor, Mr. Covici called to mind a bewildered time-traveler who had ventured far from home. He blinked at me groggily. “Please tell me you brought the treats.”

I nodded, lifting up two plastic grocery bags as evidence.

I waited in the dark for him to turn on the lights, but only one came on, in the middle of the room. With the rest of the library dark, the lone fluorescent tube light shone down dramatically, the way, in movies, a bare bulb illuminates thugs during questioning.

I removed the contents of the bags and opened the containers. Earlier that morning, half awake at the deserted grocery store, I had agonized over what to buy. Popular brand names sure didn’t convey a very masculine image: “Rainbow Chips” Deluxe, Sandies “Fruit Delights,” Soft Batch Chocolate Chips. I bypassed the Lorna Doones and the “Double Stuffed” E.L. Fudgies and settled on something safe: Oreos, Chips Ahoy!, and a package of cheap napkins.

I sat and waited, staring up at the impressive beamed ceiling. The room was cavernous, elegant. From high dusty nooks, marble busts of philosophers, poets, and playwrights watched over the tables. Along one wall were a dozen arched windows; daybreak frost covered the panes in feathery white patterns.

The early morning silence impressed me, as always. During the day, the noise level was Mr. Covici’s constant irritant, requiring his full attention. He tried everything to keep the room quiet, from gentle reminders to bursts of showy discipline, but nothing seemed to work. People liked to talk.

Last fall, Covici borrowed a ladder from the custodian. Although he didn’t seem like the kind of man who climbed ladders frequently, he did so during my study hall, holding a can of black paint and a brush. We all went silent for once, watching as he painted words along the high wall above the bulletin board. He didn’t even use a stencil. The letters were spindly but legible. It took him about an hour to paint the whole thing, moving the ladder as he went.

He wrote:
SILENCE IS A MANSION WHERE DWELL MY GREATEST NOTIONS.

It sounded like something Thomas Jefferson might have said, or Ben Franklin, or Maya Angelou—one of those people who become famous for saying obvious things in interesting ways.

Like an effective ad jingle, the sentence echoed in my mind at unlikely moments … looking out the window of the city bus at tree branches lined with snow; half awake in the shower, rinsing shampoo from my hair; in bed at night as I pulled the covers over my face.

Silence is a mansion where dwell my greatest notions.

Mr. Covici’s message did not succeed in bringing lasting quiet to the library, but the phrase quickly made its way around the school like common knowledge. On the walls of the boys’ bathroom stalls, quite a few tributes appeared:

Maxwell Tech is a toilet where dwell our greatest notions.

This toilet is the bottomless hole where dwell my greatest turds.

Pizza sausage is the motor that drives my greatest bowel movements.

Now, setting out the treats, I impulsively asked Mr. Covici, “Who said that quote, anyway?”

“Oh?” He glanced up from his monitor, then turned in the direction of my finger. “I did,” he answered, before returning to his computer.

One by one, the other club members arrived and settled silently into seats. Keenan was a sophomore, and so thin that he looked birdlike. Meeting after meeting, he rarely lifted his eyes from a hardcover copy of
The Giver.
Sophomore twins Mark and Maggie Mosinskey also kept to themselves. They showed up for meetings, where their twin votes held some influence, but they always had an airtight excuse when it came to actual volunteer work (future members of Congress, those two). Gwen, our only senior, had a round face and bleached yellow hair. She wore lipstick and carried a purse beaded with neon stars to match the stars on her jacket. Each time I saw her, Gwen gave the impression that she had stopped by school on her way to another event.

Anella, a tall, athletic-looking junior who I hadn’t ever talked to, sat across from me with her friend Ivan, also a junior. I liked to sit facing Ivan. He was handsome, with dark blond hair that fell just past his ears. His eyes were a remarkable shade of blue. Our lockers were near each other, and I often noticed him around school. Once, I’d seen him remove a guitar—without a case—from the trunk of a car. Based on the little information I knew about him, I had decided he was tough and sensitive and funny and wonderful.

Celia Gamez finally arrived, looking rested, bored and very pretty as usual. Taking her seat, she surveyed the cookies. “Did you bring these, Jamie?”

“As promised,” I said.

“Did you bring anything healthy?”

“Um, guess not.”

Curses—foiled again by my useless gut instinct.

But then Celia smiled, showing off her perfect white teeth as if she couldn’t possibly carry a grudge. “No biggie.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a yogurt and a white plastic spoon. She even ate with confidence, as if she enjoyed her breakfast in the library every morning.

There was silence among the group as Mr. Covici approached the head of the table. Notebooks folded shut, chairs squealed to attention.

Covici set his eyeglasses on the table; the lenses looked as if they hadn’t been cleaned since Christmas. “Thanks, all of you, for participating in last week’s Open House. And kudos to Ivan and Anella for helping the dean’s office with envelope stuffing yesterday. We’ve certainly had a busy month of service to Maxwell.”

I gave a private sigh. More envelope stuffing. Unlike the tennis team or the drama group, ours wasn’t the kind of club that lent itself to dynamic yearbook photos.

Nobody, I realized, was eating my cookies—only me. I had eaten one, and had two others laid out on a napkin, like an old lady at a card game.

“And now it’s that time of year again,” Mr. Covici continued. “The time to start thinking about fundraising. It is the tradition of this club to make an annual gift to the school.” He gazed at one of the far corners of the library, where the students went to fart. “For the past few years, we’ve held a Valentine’s Day flower sale. Gwen, do you want to elaborate?”

Gwen sat up proudly. “My parents own a flower shop over on Clark Street, and they always get us a bunch of carnations wholesale. We sell them with private message tags attached.”

Blue-eyed Ivan reached for a cookie, and I was insanely grateful. His hand went up. “Excuse me, what is the money for?” He spoke with the careful cadence of someone not born in this country.

“A gift,” Gwen said sourly. “For the school. He already said that.”

Ivan smiled, his dimples showing. “Yes, eh … but what are we going to purchase?”

“Hard to say, at this point,” Mr. Covici answered. “Once we raise the money, we’ll know how much we can spend this year.”

I agreed with Ivan. This seemed like an ass-backwards way to go about things. But I was only a freshman, so what did I know?

“You’ll work as teams,” Covici said.

Celia quickly raised her hand. “I volunteer Jamie and me to design the flower tags.”

“Fine,” Covici said, writing it down. “But guys, do me a favor? Something more than a heart with an arrow through it? A
smidgen
of creativity, please.”

As Covici assigned the other tasks, Celia smiled at me and mouthed,
Okay?

I nodded, feeling my face go red. Maybe Wesley was right. Maybe this amazing girl really did have a crush on me. At least, a smidgen
of a crush?

The first period bell rang and everybody rose to leave.

“Cake assignment,” Celia said to me. “Designing the tags.” Her eyes were so bright, her complexion perfect. I wondered if, over time, she would share her skin-care secrets with me.

I said, “So do you want to meet in the library after school, or what?”

“These PCs suck, in terms of graphics. Do you have a Mac at home?”

I only had access to my parents’ ancient desktop; we called it “the relic.” “No,” I admitted.

“We can work at my house then. Let’s meet in the Commons after school on Friday.”

“Cool.” I felt self-conscious, reduced to one-word answers. My face still felt warm. So this was what it felt like to be the object of someone’s desire.

“I look forward to it.” She studied my face, as if she was having difficulty reading my expression. “Okay then, Jamie … Later.”

“Later!” I called.

During my study hall, the library tables near me buzzed with conversation, gossip, and two students quizzing each other on Spanish vocab. One Asian boy with spiky hair sat by himself, reading aloud from the
Chicago Sun-Times
comics pages
.
I was always grateful for people who seemed more conspicuously crazy than me.

I logged on to a computer, eager to see who was online. Since the first of the year, I’d been chatting with a boy who said he lived in Chicago, too. His user name was CrazyforKFC—a reference to Kenny Francis Carter, the country singer, but his parents probably didn’t know that. KFC was not my favorite person online. He asked too many dumb questions. He seemed a little too eager to be “buddies.” But he often wrote questions specifically to me, and I answered to be polite. I figured that general friendliness was the rule of the game. I thought KFC was harmless.

CrazyforKFC
: hey, Chicago, do u ever go 2 Halsted Street?

Chicagojamie
: no, I live way north.

Halsted Street, between Belmont and Waveland, is the center of the gay universe in Chicago. I figured KFC wanted to meet and hang out. I wasn’t ready for that.

CrazyforKFC
: u should come. it’s awesome 2 watch all the guys.

Chicagojamie
: can’t get over there, sorry.

CrazyforKFC
: that’s 2 bad. where do u go 2 school?

There are more than a hundred high schools in Chicago. The risk of knowing him seemed minuscule. Plus, I was distracted by a new friend in Minnesota who went by the name ScreamQueen. I wanted to answer KFC and be done with him, so I could respond to ScreamQueen. I typed my school name and pressed send. Within seconds, I had a response.

CrazyforKFC
: no shit, gurl, me 2!!

My fingers froze above the keyboard. I was a complete idiot. I didn’t know what to write. Should I deny it? Say that I was kidding? His next message was like a punch in the gut.

CrazyforKF
C: r u in the library now?

Stupidly, I lifted my head. The gesture was automatic, a curious instinct. I sat up and looked around to see if anybody else was scanning the room.

By now the library had maybe twenty other students working at computers, their faces glued to their screens. But as I dreaded and expected, at the far end of the computer row, one pale boy slouched far back in his chair and looked straight at me. He grinned wildly, his narrow eyes like a laser on me. In retrospect, he was probably just friendly and excited. But to me it looked like the most villainous smile I’d ever seen.

You are a world-class dipshit,
I told myself.

The boy’s name was Paul Tremons. He was older than me, a skinny junior. His sister was a popular girl in my class, but Paul didn’t seem to belong to any particular group. To compensate, he drew attention to himself in obnoxious ways—for example, wearing a pirate hat to school, or funny sunglasses, or bellowing loud fake laughter in the hallways. I couldn’t believe I’d been chatting with him,
of all people.

We both were staring. He gave a little upward tilt of his red, pimply chin, smiling, but I couldn’t bring myself to smile back. I felt dizzy from exposure.

I thought of how gossip spreads, like water in a paper towel, absorbed quickly by large groups of people. Who knew if this jackass could keep a secret? Would I end up like the boy in seventh grade, under constant attack from all sides? One thing I knew for sure: I was not ready to go to any island
yet.