"How is your dissertation going?" Mrs. Reynolds asks. "Your father has said that you are writing about Chaucer. That's quite impressive. I didn't even think they taught Chaucer anymore. There's such a focus on trying to entertain students, rather than educate them."
Oh, God, I think to myself, another question about my dissertation. Not that I have been counting (I most certainly have,) but having to answer the same banal inquiries about my schooling is getting tiresome. I suppose I should be glad that there is a well-stocked bar; I take another sip of champagne.
I find myself listening to her blather on about how much she enjoyed her college days at Bryn Mawr. I can feel my eyes glazing over as she beams about how she won a prize for her thesis on In Remembrance of Thing Past. I wonder how we got to Proust from Chaucer, but I'm certain there's no better explanation than Mrs. Reynolds' own vainglorious need for affirmation.
"It has been lovely catching up with you, Mrs. Reynolds," I abruptly say, cutting her off mid-sentence, "but I see a friend waving to me across the room. Have a great evening."
Her face looks like I just slapped it with a dainty lace glove; she is not used to rejection. I quickly turn and walk to the bar. I swallow the last few drops of champagne from my glass before exchanging it for another. I look at the clock; it is only 9:15 p.m.
I don't know why I agreed to come tonight. I didn't even want to return home for the holidays, let alone get dragged to a party with a bunch of upper-crust assholes. I could be back at school writing... but that's a lie, and I know it. I would probably just be watching re-runs of some old show on TV right now if I had stayed.
I look around the room. It is filled with the faces of people I have known my whole life, but I don't feel as though I truly recognize any of them. My mother and father are speaking to their dentist in the area near the entrance to the foyer. I know that my father must be talking about how he could never be a dentist since he wouldn't be able to look in people's mouths all day long. I've heard that conversation before.
I can see the moon shining through the large glass doors leading to the backyard. Even when everything else seems insipid, the moon never fails to make me feel at least some sense of awe. I find myself walking towards the doors, escaping the crowd.
The brisk air hits my skin as I step outside. The hair on my arms stands in response, prickling against the soft cashmere of my sweater. I adapt quickly, letting the cold wash over me like a wave. I meander over to the edge of the brickwork that acts as a boundary between the patio and the yard.
I gaze into the sky. I feel something crashing down within me. I wonder if it will leave an impact, as I look at the scars left on the surface of the moon. I could almost cry, but I'm not sure if that would be possible. I hear the door slide shut behind me.
"I'm sorry," says a man's voice. "I didn't know anyone was out here."
I hear myself sigh. The muscles in my cheeks preemptively ache as I force them into a smile before I turn. I see Jackson Wilder standing a few feet behind me. The light from inside the house wraps around his fitted white dress shirt and tan pants, but it obscures the details of his face.
"It's fine," I say. "I'm just getting some fresh air."
**********************************************************************************************************
"Ben. Ben Whitley," I heard Mr. Lawson call out.
I was about ready to walk out the door, my backpack slung over my shoulder. I was looking forward to going home and jerking off before my parents returned from the city. I had just finished performing my final exam, a monologue from Richard III, and I wanted nothing less than to be stuck in this classroom. It was only two weeks until high school graduation. I turned around to see Jackson Wilder standing next to Mr. Lawson.
I felt my heart skip a beat. Jackson was one of those guys that pulled the warmth from within you when you looked at him. He was tall, muscular, and had a disarming smile. He always dressed a little more formally than what one would expect for someone our age, wearing button-ups almost every day. I watched as he brushed a strand of auburn hair from his forehead; his emerald green eyes mesmerized me.
"Ben, could you stay a bit longer?" Mr. Lawson asked. "Mary-Elizabeth, Jackson's scene partner, has taken ill. It seems that she will be recovering for the next few weeks. But, as they say, the show must go on. Can you read opposite of him? It won't impact your grade, and I would greatly appreciate your assistance."
I nodded, feeling a mixture of excitement and fear, as I agreed to help. I had only ever had a few interactions with Jackson; none of them had been meaningful. I had watched as girls would approach him with ease, finding any excuse to start a conversation. I'd always envied them. I would sometimes fantasize about scenarios that would allow me to form a connection with him. When students would be paired up assignments in class, I would say a little prayer that I would finally have a chance to speak with him. I knew I could never be bold enough to approach him like all those girls; I wasn't even bold enough to say that I was gay aloud.
"That is fantastic!" Mr. Lawson said. "I'm going to run to the bathroom. Jackson, please orient Ben to your piece. I will be back shortly."
Jackson started to walk towards me, with his dazzling smile already lighting up the room. I looked down at my shoes; my heart was beating faster. He stood next to me holding a few pieces of paper in his hands.
"Thanks so much for doing this, Ben. I can't afford to fail this exam. I'm not spending my summer taking this class over again. I'm going to be too busy partying before I head off to school in Pennsylvania. Do you go to parties? I don't think I have seen you at any."
I knew for a fact he hadn't seen me at any parties. I had been too anxious to attend any, although I tried to tell myself that getting drunk on someone's parents' stolen schnapps was beneath me.
"No, um, I'm not really a party person."
"That's a shame," he said. "It would have been nice to get to know you. Although, I'm kind of glad you didn't come; I don't know if I could have competed with a good-looking guy like you." He nudged his shoulder into mine. From anyone else, it would have been obvious gladhanding. From him, it meant the world -- which was weird, because I also didn't believe for one second that he thought I was that good-looking.
"Okay," he said, "so we're doing Romeo and Juliet, act one, scene five. I'm playing Romeo, and Mary-Elizabeth was supposed to play Juliet, but I guess that's you now. Mr. Lawson is reading the few lines for the nurse. You can have my copy of the lines since I can't use them anyway."
Then he nodded at my T-shirt, not even giving me a chance to reply. "The Smiths, huh?" He reached out, sliding his fingers across the picture of Morrissey. I could feel my abs muscles tense as I breathed in deeply. His smile widened; his touch lingered before he finally removed his hand.
"'Punctured bicycle, on a hillside desolate, will nature make a man of me yet?'" he sang a little off-key.
I started to smile; a sensation of happiness was beginning to push back against any anxiety. It felt nice being seen by Jackson after four years of fading into the background. I could see why people were always around him. I tried to think back, but I couldn't recall having ever seen him alone in the school corridors. I looked into his emerald eyes. I could swear they sparkled with their own light.
"Are we ready to go?" asked Mr. Lawson as he entered to room.
"As ready as we'll ever be," Jackson responded while quickly squeezing my shoulder.
Mr. Lawson sat in his chair as we made our way to the front of the classroom. I looked down at the pages, trying to rapidly familiarize myself with the lines. Jackson began to speak. I felt some burgeoning sense of pressure to not let him down. I had been waiting for the opportunity to be close with him for so long; I couldn't bear it if I ended up disappointing him.
"My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss."
I could feel Romeo's longing and his desire as Jackson spoke. His voice sounded like it was dripping with honey. He was looking straight into my eyes. I stood, paralyzed; I had never thought he would look at me this way. Then I realized it was my line; I fumbled at the beginning before finding my rhythm.
